


The Blood of the Wolf

by Im_gonna_show_you



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe-Shifters, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Multi, Past Miscarriage, Past Rape/Non-con, R plus L equals J, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Universe Alteration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-06-09 08:48:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 15
Words: 48,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6899218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Im_gonna_show_you/pseuds/Im_gonna_show_you
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sansa was a little girl, she dreamt of becoming a Queen. She'd heard the stories and songs that her mother had told and sang to her, they were happy and prosperous. Kings Landing was anything but. Between Joffrey and Ramsay, her dreams of songs, stories, and love are stripped from her.</p><p>She spent her entire life rejecting the wolf that lived inside of the Starks, and now? Now she has no choice but to accept that wolf inside of her. She needs to be strong for Jon and Rickon, she needs to be strong for the North. Or else everything she loved, her home and everything that Robb fought for, will be in vain. </p><p>AU: There’s a reason the Starks house is a direwolf sigil, for the blood of the wolf is in their blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Sansa becomes the sharp wolf she always meant to be; Jon Snow to Stark to Targaryen; The Rise of the North; R+L=J.
> 
> In the tags, I've mentioned an Alternate Universe. In this story, the Starks, once of age, can become wolves. It's not something that's going to be a huge piece of the story, more or less representative of Sansa's acceptance of her family. It's something that won't be treated as anything other than normal to the characters in the story, but again, not super important or a large piece of the story.

The Blood of the Wolf  
Chapter One

Sansa had once tried to repel the Northern nature in her bones: she wanted to be like her mother. Womanly, nurturing, feminine, kind, and gracious. She wanted to be a Queen, like all the girls did at her age. She would not face the change until her sixteenth year, and by then she would be the King’s wife. She had accepted that she wouldn’t ever be the Northern Queen Arya or her Aunt Lyanna had been called. She wasn’t fierce, she wasn’t strong, she was sweet. She was caring and ladylike boringly and compulsively so. Sometimes she wishes she could go back.

Those dreams shattered the moment she saw her father’s death. Those dreams shattered when Eddard Stark, an honorable man, a moral man, a good man, was murdered. And it was her fault: she had rejected who she was. She had let herself fall to the Lions. She had let herself break off of her nature.

She had built herself up a little when Littlefinger got his grubby hands on her. When he had twisted and twisted, wanting her to be like her mother. He had only seen Catelyn Stark well no, Tully, when he looked at Sansa. She thought she owed him, but in reality, if she had not had her, he would’ve fallen. She knows it in her gut that he had something to do with her father's death.

Ramsay Snow had done the last to her. He had raped her and took the one shred of ladiness she had left. The one piece that tied her to her mother. It was nights later on a full moon, when the night sky illuminated with power, that she felt it in her blood. 

She’s a Stark, and the blood of the wolf is in her.

She gave up pretending after that. So she searched for the one piece that she thought she could salvage of her, the wolf in her blood. In the river that she and Theon pass, she feels the cold sink into her body and she finally gives up. No longer will she fight the path of the wolf and the path of the North that she shoulders through. She is a Northerner: they remember. They fight, they are loyal. We are strong, she tells herself. We northerners will always be strong, she whispers to herself.

It’s with Jon and Tormund that she finds her edge. Neither of them look at her with the expectation of a Lady or a quiet, caring girl, like Brienne and Podrick do. But Sansa has found her strength. She knows that she will no longer allow her family to die. Instead, she’ll tear out the hearts of those who threaten them. They’re strong, smart, but she knows their enemies. They don’t ignore her like she half expected, but instead take her advice to heart.

“Ramsay has more men: but he is reckless. He’s willing to give up any advantage he has if he thinks that it will be more emasculating. He will do whatever he can to get under your skin.” She tells them both, and Brienne eyes narrow. 

“Sure is a nasty bastard. Seems that he likes to let others now he’s in charge.” Tormund says, watching Brienne.

“It’s also his weakness.” Sansa states. “His birth it’s something that he rejects, it’s why he uses it against you, Jon. It’s a deflection. It’s something that you’ll be able to use against him. Theon said that he fights viciously, uncaring of injury. But he enjoys to play,” She pauses at the word, but continues on anyway, knowing that while she wants to be sick, she is a Stark and this is her home at risk, “with his victims. When you meet on the battlefield, you must not let him get to your head, do not let him play his games.” She tells them all.

“When?” Jon asks, eyes narrowed.

“He enjoys a show,” she tells him. “He sees my escape as a lash against his manhood. He overcompensates and lashes out with anger. He is incapable of anything akin to care, and enjoys inflicting pain. But we have another problem to face.” She says smoothly, and Jon nods, standing from the table and moving to the fire. 

“Petyr Baelish married me to him, full-well expecting me to make him fall for me. I do not think he understood the game he was playing, which is incredibly unlike him. He’s gotten bold, he’s gotten impulsive. but Baelish has done something far worse. He has hands in every peice of politics except for the Dragon Queen. He began manipulating me at the tourney, and killed aunt Lysa.” He turns sharply, and Brienne walks forward. 

“How is he not dead?” Jon asks, cold.

She turns to him and squares his jaw. There were things that she would tell Jon in confidence, but she could never tell anyone else. That she thinks to herself, is for another day, without prying eyes or ears. They may not think it, but politics are just as dangerous as armies. “He convinced me that father would be pardoned, only for Joffrey to sentence him to death. He forced me to rely on him for safety, and made me think that Aunt Lysa would kill me if I became more powerful than she.” She isn’t lying, not completely. Because Petyr, while he loved her mother, only loved power more than her. “Then convinced me that I would be free, then sent me to Ramsay.” She says pausing. “He has his hands on cousin Robin. Ramsay may be the immediate threat: but Baelish will never be loyal to anyone other than himself. He has complete control of the Vale, and the Vale has one of the largest, and for the most part, is near untouched by the civil war. He is too powerful, and he has his hands in the Boltons, Arryns, Lannisters, and Tyrells. But…” But he has men.

“We need his bloody men.” Tormund snaps, annoyed. “Snakes’ll prove themselves useful for the time bein’. Once we deal with this bloody Ramsay piece of shit, we’ll kill the snake.” She watches the red-haired man and nods to him calmly. 

“I will deal with Baelish: I’ve learned enough about him to know when and how he’s fooling. He’ll believe that he still has me in his pocket, that I’ll be loyal to him. But we need him and his support now. House Reed, if you call on them Jon, will grant you men. There’s not more than a thousand or so left, but they are loyal to house Stark, they are strong hunters and fighters.”

She watches her brother mull and plan, and wonders if the wolf is that he is can sense hers. She’s nearing her sixteenth nameday, and every piece of her feel’s like she’s thrumming. But...but there is something different about Jon. She can feel it and she doesn’t know if it’s because he’s her half brother, because of his revival, or something else, but wolves blood is not the only thing that lies within him. She finds it doesn’t frighten her, though. She finds it sooths her instead, to know that she’s not the only one struggling. But she feels herself hate that she feels that way. But she finds comfort that she’s not alone.

“Jon, you are-” There’s a knock at the door, and the room stills.

It is Matthar that opens the door, bowing quickly. “Lord c-Lord, Snow,” He corrects quickly. “A letter, from Lyanna Mormont.” He hands it to Jon, who unravels it and begins to read it outloud as the door closes. 

To Lord Jon and Lady Sansa Stark,  
I am Lady Lyanna Mormont, Lady of Bear Island. Word of Lady Sansa’s survival and escape from the Bolton’s Bastard has reached us. To be honest, until recently I was afraid to send this letter to you. I was unsure how it would effect Lady Sansa’s future, especially with whispers of the Bastard’s famous ‘hunts’. But after news of her escape, I could no longer sit back and not continue to not come forward. I expect her to be close to you, and so I pray to the Gods that she is. However, if she is not I will continue to pray anyways. We are loyal to any cause that you raise-we Northerners remember. My mother, Maege Mormont, was a trusted follower to the beloved King, Robb Stark, may the Gods Rest his soul. Shortly before he died, in secret, he gave my mother papers Legitimizing you Lord Jo-

Jon stops, his hands and voice breaking off. 

“Jon,” Sansa says softly, moving forward and placing a hand on his shoulder. She watches the sharp lines of his face and the confusion and uncertainty in his eyes. He begins again, his voice colder and sharper. His back is straighter than normal, and the room goes uncomfortably silent.

...Legitimizing Lord Jon Stark. He named you as his heir-and gave you the North should he ever fall. I, as well as any Northerner will forever follow you. You and your sister are the true heirs to the North. Attached are the official papers of his Legitimization.

Should you ever need help, we will always come when called.  
I wish you luck, prosperity, and protection, Lord Jon Stark and Lady Sansa Stark.  
May the Gods, old and new, watch over you both,  
Lady Lyanna Mormont

She can feel the air constrict, and Jon is frozen. She looks up at her companions, and with her eyes she begs them to leave. Brienne snaps a look at Tormund, and he nods ever so slightly, before looking to Jon and standing. He watches him for a moment, worried, but his eyes flick to Sansa. And she stares him back, nodding ever so slightly.

I’ll watch over him. She wills to him and they leave. Sansa sits next to him, and takes his hand like she had a day earlier.

“Father would be proud of you, Robb would be proud of you, Arya will be proud of you, Bran will be proud of you, Rickon will be proud of you,” she says, taking his hand and raising it to her mouth. “I am proud to be your sister.” She says to him, laying her lips against his fire-hot hands. 

Jon shakes, but inhales deeply. She watches as he re-reads over the document, and she leans her head against his shoulder as she reads Robb’s handwriting over and over.

“Stannis offered to legitimize me before,” he says roughly, and there's grief on his throat and slipping onto the sullen mask he’s donned. “I declined.” He laughs bitterly.

Sansa holds him, and wonders how this became of their lives: how this all happened. She wonders how she managed to be so stupid, she wonders how she allowed this all to happen.

But she knows, in her heart, that this is the beginning.

She would be the Wolf that she was meant to be. She will protect her family like she hadn’t been able to before. 

“Do you decline now?” She asked him. He doesn’t answer at first, but places the paper on the table before looking down at her.

He’s handsome in the way that the Southerners were not: strong, masculine, fierce, but so soft at the same time. He looks at her like he could share the world with her. And she wanted that. She didn’t care if he was her brother. The romantic love she dreamt of as a child had been tarnished. She would love him with all of her heart, for he had been spared of the love of a true sibling. She would protect him. It wasn’t the love she dreamt of, but it was love. And while it may be stuck in a strange place, unsure and afraid, he was her family. She was loyal to him. His beard is thicker than she remembers, thicker and darker than father’s. But he didn’t look like her father, not quite. He’s darker, now. So was she. She would protect him from Baelish, like he would protect her from Ramsay. Even if it means that she’ll have to kill Baelish herself.

She could do it, she would do it once the time was right. She would avenge her family and protect what’s left of it.

“Winterfell will be yours and Rickon’s. I will fight for you both, but I will never be a King.” He says.

“Because you don’t want to be? Or because you don’t think you deserve it?” She asks him. “Because Jon Stark, son of Eddard Stark, you are worthy of much more than just a King. You protected those no one else would, you stayed true to your convictions, you were brought back from the dead for a reason. I don’t believe everything the Red Woman says: but I do believe that there’s a reason you are here, Jon.”

He smiles at her suddenly, and runs his hand through her hair gently. 

“Everytime I look at you I see the Northerner you’ve become, Sansa. But I am not like you.” She frowns, turning her head. His body is hot against hers, and she fits against his easily. But he stands and turns to the fire, his back facing her. “I lied when I said that I hadn’t seen anything when I died.” She feels the air escape from her chest and she sits up sharply.

“Jon...what did you see?” He turns and looks at her, and she can see the tears in his eyes, the anger, and the tiredness.

“I saw my birth, Sansa.” She can feel her eyes widen. From as far as she can remember knowing that Jon wasn’t her ‘real’ brother in her mother’s eyes (and therefore hers) she had wondered who his mother was. She had asked her mother once but she just got this far away look in her eyes before she looked at the boy sharply as he did chores, and shook her head. No one knew. Her father never betrayed that secret: never told Jon, either. She wondered if he ever planned on telling Jon.

“My mother was not some low-born commoner, Sansa.” He says, his voice cold, broken. His hands are clenched and he’s shaking. “My mother was Lyanna Stark.”

Sansa feels her mouth fall open and her heart race faster. That-that would mean-

“Y-you’re a Targaryen.” She stutters out. “But-that’s not…” He takes his glove off, shrugs off his cloak, and drops them to the ground. He looks back at her and sticks his hand in the fire. 

She stands, gasping, hand over her mouth and stumbled backwards. “Jon! Stop it!” She hisses but when he pulls his hand out of the fire, and his hand remains unburned, not a hint of redness or irritation. For a second she wondered if he had done it all, but she had seen the flame lick the inside of his wrist.

“You-you’re a Dragon,” She whispers to herself, shock and confusion on her face. 

His back goes straight, hard, and she can see the shaking in his shoulders.

She understands. His entire life he had struggled with his identity. Her mother had forbade him from ever becoming a Stark, and their father had allowed that differentiation. Looking back, she wished that she hadn’t been so foolish. Jon was more noble than near any Lord she’d met outside of her family. His birth shouldn’t have damn him. But being Ned Stark’s son had been all he had outside of being a bastard, the loathed step-son of Catelyn Stark. It was all he had other than the cold name of Bastard and the prospect of no lands, no wife, and no honor. Stark was all he had known. He never had the love of a mother, warmth of a woman who would love him no matter what. And just as he’s given that, he learns that none of it had been true. He was no Stark. Not by birthright, at least. No, he was the grandson of the dead Mad King, son of the dead Prince Rhaegar, and the dead Princess of the North. All the pain he had endured, all the loneliness, even what she had inflicted, wasn’t even his to claim. He turns his back to her, and she shakes her head. 

She stands and moves forward. 

“Even if your father is Rhae” she pauses, struggling to decompress the information before she tries again. “Rhaegar Targaryen, you are the son of Lyanna Stark, my aunt and your blood is from the North. You are a Stark, Jon,” She takes his hands, and holds them. She watches him earnestly. “Even if father isn’t your birth father, he chose you, Jon.” She whispers to him, letting go of his hands and taking his face in her hands. “He chose to raise you. He could have claimed you a ward: but he made you his son. And Robb, he took you as his heir. He didn’t have too, but he chose you, like father chose to make you his son. No one has to know Jon, if you want to live out the rest of your life as a Stark, you can. I will never tell anyone. Have this, Jon.” Her eyes are earnest and he wishes he could fall into her arms and agree, complacent and safe. Her eyes are earnest, and she means what she says. But Jon can feel the disgust well in him. Because this is not his to claim. It is not his birthright.

“Sansa, my birth was not the only thing I saw.” He takes her by the upper back, his arms enclosing around her. He pulls her to him, and rests his chin on her head. “Winter is coming, darkness will follow. And bloodshed. I’ve seen enough senseless death, Sansa.” She shakes her head.

“The future is not cemented, Jon, just because you saw certain things doesn’t mean that the shadows that encompassed it is what you think it is. We cannot outrun fate, Jon, and we have an idea of what is coming. But there is no sure outcome. We know what we will face, and we have an edge. We’re northerners: we’re strong. We survive winters that no others could ever imagine. It’s in our blood. We were born to survive the Dark tides.”

She pulls away from him, but holds him there. “We have each other, and soon we will have Rickon. We can unite the North once again, and we will be a family again. You can be our brother, Jon. If it is what you want.” He shakes his head at her, but watches her eyes as she realizes that he will never claim the title of Lord Stark. The light in her eyes dim, but then they harden. He knows that even if he never claims this, she will always be his family. And he, hers.

“Your fate is yours, Jon. And I will support you. But we will take back the North. We will find Rickon.”

He nods to her, but looks to the fire.

“Daenerys Targaryen will be coming to Westeros, Sansa. Reclaiming Winterfell and the North are our first goals: but the White Walkers are coming. We cannot ignore that threat, nor ignore the Free Folk that are at risk over the wall.”

Sansa watches him closely before speaking. “We can give them The Dreadfort.” She says to him. “The Free Folk who join us, who fight for us, we can give them the Dreadfort. It could be incentive for loyalty. But Daenerys is known for breaking chains. If she believes us to be different from the other families, maybe...just maybe…” She trails off, her eyes focusing on the thick beard settled on his face. She inspects the scars on his eyes and allow her eyes to trace over his face like she may never see him again. “But it’ll also give us eyes within the Castle. We need to eventually weed out all of Bolton’s men and spies, like our ancestors should have before. It’ll show the others that we reward true honor and loyalty, not just old alliances that faded long ago. The North needs to get used to the fact that the Free Folk are facing the same fate we are.”

Jon doesn’t look at her for a long time, but when he does she can see the lack of decision in his eyes. She doesn’t know how to feel. He could have Winterfell, their home. But he isn’t taking it. And now, she doesn’t know if he will chose to be her brother or her cousin.

“The decision, will be yours Sansa.”

She doesn’t argue this time. Instead she stares at him, hard. 

“The Lannister’s want me dead for the death of Joffrey, Jon. If they find that you’re the son of Rhaegar and Lyanna, they’ll send an entire army to the North.” She says quietly, her heart clenching. “But we...we should talk about Daenerys. She is your aunt-”

“I know nothing of her, Sansa.” He says, not unkindly, but tired. She can see the shadows play across his face, and he strikes her as tragically beautiful in this moment. She’s heard Tormund call him pretty. But Tormund would probably think otherwise if he ever saw the likes of Loras or even Tommen. It makes sense know, though. Why he was always so much darker than father. Aunt Lyanna was said to have dark hair, near the color of coal and skin the fair color of the snow. She was honorable, but fierce and strong. Like Jon. She places her hand on his shoulder.

“I know, Jon. But she has Dragons. Dragons that could stop the Others, Dragons that could save us. I’m not asking you to take the crown: but we do not have the stability, currency, nor the men to fight the Others. She wants the throne: so let her keep it. We will offer her the loyalty of the North.”

He stares into the fire, and nods. “We need to defeat Ramsay first.” She nods.

“I will deal with Baelish. You deal with Ramsay.” He stares at her and sees the serious and calculating look in her eyes. 

“You really have changed.” He says. She smiles, gentle and soft at him suddenly.

“Mother would be disappointed, I suppose.” She says quietly.

“Arya would be proud.” He says, and her heart hurts at the thought of that. She embraces him suddenly as they both shake.

They would give up their lives to have their family here.

But first they must take back their home.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!  
> If anyone sees any errors, syntax, grammar, or punctuation, please let me know! I don't really have anyone to read over my writing, so I appreciate all the help I can get.  
> Thank you!

The Blood of the Wolf  
Chapter Two

“Did you know about Ramsay?” Sansa asks, her voice steeled and cold. Brienne is behind her, watching her back like Baelish would expect of her and her brother. It’s been five days since they had left Castle Black and they’d met the Arryn Army halfway to Winterfell. The Free Folk had been mistrusted, but no one dare step towards them Free Folk. They were under protection of Sansa Stark and Jon Snow, true heirs to the North. “Did you know he was a monster? Did you know he’d rape me every night, or that he hunted women? Did you know that he cut Theon Greyjoy? Or that he fed women to his hounds?” She asks, and watches a flicker of anger and fury behind his eyes. It wasn’t at her.

“Lady Stark, had I known, I never would have even suggested the marriage. I am so, so sorry.” He says, stepping towards her.

She judges his reaction, before turning to Brienne and nodding to her. She turns in an instant and leaves them. She makes her voice shake as she speaks her next words. “Petry, I want him dead. He has Rickon, he has the North. I want him dead for what he’s done. And I want my brother back.” She lets her voice shake and wane at the end, and he steps towards her, placing his hands on her shoulders.

“He will pay, Sansa.” He promises her, and she relaxes, moving towards his arms and he embraces her. “The Boltons line will be exterminated, Ramsay Bolton will die a bloody death.” He whispers to her, to placate her. He brushes her hair softly against her head, and she resists the shiver of disgust.

Sansa knows he’s sorry. But he’s not necessarily sorry for what Ramsay had done. He’s sorry for his miscalculation. He’s sorry that his toy has been tainted by another man. She wants him dead in this moment, but she must wait. Too early, and she’d never have the Arryn army. Too late, and he’d probably kill someone else she loved.

She pulls away from him, and begins to tell him of their plans.

“Ramsay wants to put on a show. The letter he sent Jon was in poem form.” She tells him, feigning horror, but her disgust wasn’t fake. “He told Jon he’d have his men rape me in front of him, that he’d kill him and set his dogs on Rickon and slaughter the Free Folk.” She says. Baelish tilts his head.

“He will pay, Sansa. The Gods will come for him. But the Free Folk...what do you plan on using them for after this?” 

She doesn’t tell him of her real plans, just as she’d agreed to Jon, just like she won’t tell him of Brienne and Lord Reed’s true intentions. “They go where Jon goes, and Jon will stay with Rickon and I. They’re loyal, vicious fighters, and they’re indebted to him. And Ramsay threatened them as well. He even threatened their children.” He nods, turning away from her.

“Ramsay will not touch you.” He says, and her skin crawls. Because it’s not because he wants to protect her because she deserves it: he sees her as his. “Jon will meet him on the battlefield. The Boltons and Umbers have over seven thousand men in their ranks. We have a third of the Arryn army here. That’s just under seven thousand men.” She nods.

“We should call for the Reeds.” She says to him. “In secret, of course. Ramsay needs to think he will win. That would be another thousand or so men on our ranks for cushion. We need him to feel like he could meet us on the battlefield. If he holds Winterfell we’ll never get in.”

Petyr smiles at her. “You’ve learned well, Sansa.” She smiles suddenly, it’s small, but somewhat broken.

“You taught me the game, Petyr. But we need to meet with the War council. Jon gave us time to meet, but they are waiting. Have you decided who you will elect?” She asks him softly. “We will need your expertise planning, but someone will need to lead the Arryn Army on the fields.” 

He hands her his arm as he speaks to her of Lord Yohn Royce, who she had already knew would be his war general. 

The War council is consisted of Jon, Tormund, Brienne, Petyr, Lord Yohn Royce, and Podrick, who squired the meeting. Once they entered the War Tent, they found that they were the last to arrive.

“Lady Stark, I am glad to see you well and safe.” Lord Yohn Royce tells her gruffly. She spares him a small smile before bowing her head in acquiescence.

“Thank you Lord Royce, for your support. We Starks will nought soon forget.” She tells him graciously. “This is my brother, Jon Snow.”

The room stills as they watch Jon, and she knows why. Rumors had begun to float of his return. “Lord Snow,” Lord Royce says, watching him carefully.

“It is him, Lord Royce.” She says, soothing him. “It may have been years, but I grew up with Jon. The Good Gods brought him back for a reason. Together, united, we will recapture the North and stop the White Walkers.” She tells them, and his eyes narrow, nodding in understanding. “This is Tormund Giantsbane, he is a powerful leader amongst the Free Folk. He’s protected my brother and is a noble man.” She speaks of him graciously, and Tormund looks a bit surprised. “He is a strong leader, and I am grateful that he is here with us on the council.”

Politics are trickier than war, she knows. Tormund is a Wildling: and she will need to repeat her claim of protection over him again and again. But she will, because he is loyal and strong. “Brienne of Tarth, my sworn sword, she once served my mother and now serves me. She saved me, guided me back to my brother. Podrick Payne is her squire but also a valiant fighter in his own right.” She finishes.

“Lord Baelish,” Jon speaks first. They’d spoken of this: Petyr must believe that he can manipulate Jon. She told him that she would take care of him, but she needed him to work with her. “I want to thank you, for getting Sansa out of the Lannister’s hands. If it had not been for you, my sister would be dead.” Jon’s voice sounds somewhat rougher, but she resists the urge to compliment his skill in manipulation. But she knows he hates it.

“I only wish that I had foreseen what Ramsay Bolton was, Lord Snow. Had I known he was the monster he is, I would have never let her out of my sight.” Petyr says to him, twisting and tangling his words inside her head and within Jon’s.

Traitor, her blood sings to her. The moon is getting closer, she knows. But she resists it.

“What matters now is that we are together.” Jon says, looking to Sansa. She pulls away from Petyr and moves to Jon's side. “And that the Stark’s and Arryn’s will secure the North, kill the traitor Boltons and Freys, and protect the rest of Westeros from the White Walkers.” Jon continues, and she feels her heart race at the prospects and fate they face.

She watches keenly as Baelish’s face shifts for a moment, and she quickly realizes that he’s watching the distance between the two of them. 

He won’t kill Jon, not yet, anyways. Jon is strong, and has the blood of a Stark within him. The men will listen to him. And he has an army of Wildlings at his expense.

She places her hand on his shoulder, and he nods. “We should begin.” Sansa says, and they do.

The ploy is easy. Jon composes the letters requesting help from House Reed and Sansa calls for help from Edmure Tully after deliberation. Lord Royce tells him that the men will not take easy to Wildlings in the army, but they will follow his orders. They agree that it would be easier to begin integrating the men earlier rather than later, and warn all the men of horrors to come.

When the war council is dismissed and everyone sent on their own private missions, Sansa stays with her brother, Petyr’s eyes lingering long on them both before leaving. When Jon is sure he is gone, she sees the tenseness sink from his shoulders and his glare settle on the flap he left from.

“It’s just a matter of time, Jon.” She tells him softly.

“I need to speak to Lord Reed when he gets back to us.” He tells her, lifting his hand to his mouth. It’s something he had done as a young child when he was upset, but once he had realized that it was noticeable, he had trained himself from it. It seems, he thinks to himself as he catches the movement, that Sansa brings out the things he thought he had forgotten about himself. 

“Alone?”

He looks at the beautiful girl he used to call sister, and now isn’t sure just what to call her. “Lord Reed was there in my vision. He...he swore an oath to your father that he would never betray my secret. I need to know more.” Sansa shifts, but doesn’t comment on his reference to her father, rather than their father.

Instead she told him she wanted to find Jeyne Poole or another girl trustworthy enough, yet smart enough to marry Robin. Jon had looked at her strangely and she told him he wasn’t an intelligent boy, sweet enough, but he would need a smart and trustworthy woman to protect House Arryn from his dimwitted ways. She didn’t even know if Jeyne was alive: she hoped she was. It’s a girlish, childish hope. Jeyne had been a good friend, but she had been immature. So had she, but she wonders if the winter had hardened Jeyne like they had hardened Sansa. She wonders if she’s married now, maybe even with a babe, perhaps. The thought makes her sick, though. She hadn’t seen Jeyne in Winterfell. She asked the maids of her, but they had not known. She wonders where she might have gone, where she could have moved off too. If she was dead. 

Being near each other in such a close way feels strange, but natural. She hadn’t been cruel to him as a child, but she knew that she hadn’t been kind either. She was awful, annoying and wishing to be a Queen and so proper all the time. She wishes she could turn back time and start all over again, but she rejects that notion all together. This is what they face: and they must face it together.

“The Nobles won’t be happy if we give the Free Folk Dreadfort.” He tells her, drawing her from her thoughts. She nods. Because she knows they won’t be. 

“It isn’t about happiness, Jon. They protected you, they served you, and they serve the North now. They deserve something in return. A King and Queen's job is not to make sure their people are happy, it is to make sure that they are safe and well. Creating another house from one that is already prominent does nothing. We have so many displaced people and we need fresh blood. The alliances of the North are old, but we are not. We need to adapt and move on with time.” She says, her hands writing out another letter, but she isn’t quite sure that the words she says will be enough. She pulls away from the table to face Jon, and looks him in the eyes.

“Sansa...how do you plan on taking down Petyr?” He asks her suddenly, quietly, and unsure. She can see the worry in his eyes, and he strikes her so strongly of father in this moment she wants to cry. She turns away from him again and wonders what he’ll think of her.

“He once told me that he loved my mother.” She tells him quietly. “He even told me that had it been another life, he would have been my father.” She remembers the crispness of the air, the cold and comforting weather of the vale. She remembers how he made her feel: special, but scared. He made her skin crawl sometimes. But then she’f feel guilty because he had saved her. “He kissed me after that.” She says coldly. “I was so stupid: I thought he wanted to protect me because he cared for me.” She laughs at the thought of that, cold, hurt, and angry. “I felt...I felt so confused and scared. I didn’t understand then, what he wanted. When I pulled away from him in shock and disgust, I didn’t know that Aunt Lysa was watching. It wasn’t until after Aunt Lysa tried to throw me through the moon door, and he killed her instead that I finally understood. He wanted me to be her. But he also wants the throne, and the only thing he ever loved more than my mother is himself. But...but Jon…” her hands are white and she remembers what she said. “My father, my husband, my sister, they all stood between us and now they’re all dead. That’s what happens between people who stand between Petyr and me,” she parrots “that’s what she told me. Petyr knew, Jon. He used her. She killed her own husband, she helped him start all of this. And when he was done with her he threw her out the moondoor. He used me. He used mother, he used father, and until he is stopped he won’t stop. Eventually, even I will no longer become useful for him.” She looks at him, and she hopes he doesn’t see less of her.

“You don’t have to do it, we can end him together. We can sentence him to death.” He tells her.

She smiles at him. “He’ll find a way to weasel out of it, Jon. He always will. Robin will follow him because he thinks Petyr is good, strong, and will do whatever he wants. In order to keep Robin loyal, I have to destroy his reputation. That is the only way that Petyr Baelish will ever truly, truly die. But I also need someone to protect him. Lord Royce sees Robin as a mad boy, but I think with the right woman by his side, a woman who sees the bigger picture, we can have a strong alliance.” She tells him seriously.

She wonders what her mother would do in her place. She knows what father would do. But her mother, she had always been a mystery to her. She could hardly understand how she could be so loving to Sansa and her full-blooded siblings while being so cold to her other brother, or cousin, in this case. And she wonders how she would've reacted if she knew the truth. And she wonders why father never truly trusted her with the secret.

“What do I call you know?” She asks him suddenly. He’s not foolish enough to believe that she’s asking for his name. He knows she means his blood. She laughs, soft, and unsure. “I was so...I don’t want to play the game here, Jon. You’re all I have left.” 

He sits next to her, and shakes his head. “You have Rickon, too, Sansa.” But he knows that it’s not a complete truth. Rickon had been so young then, and Sansa had wanted to be anything other than the northerner she was born to be. It’s not the right thing to say, Jon realizes in hindsight as Sansa turns away. “I...I do not know.” He wants to tell her that he doesn’t even know himself. With the dreams of horror and war, all he wants is peace. But peace is to be fought for.

But she just nods, takes his hand and stares into the flames.

When Jon is called by Lord Royce to asses the men and begin training, she decides that it’s time to mingle and set their plans in motion. She meets with sweet Robin and Petyr next. She hugs him tight and tells him she missed him. He’s young and doesn’t quite understand, but appreciates the hug before he tells her that he will always come to her defense, as will Petyr. He’s so sweet, she knows, but also awkward and unusual.

She feels Petyr’s eyes on her, and she knows that the others do too. Lady Brienne watches her closely, but she knows Petyr’s men see it as well, but Sansa ignores it all and favors her cousin and listens to him speak and slips under his skin. It drives Petyr up a wall, but she has plans for that later. She does care for Robin, but she knows that if he ever fell under the wrong tutelage, the Vale would be lost. And that cannot happen. 

It’s that night that she tells Brienne what she plans.

“I’m not my mother, Lady Brienne.” She nods to her, and gives her a smile. It’s not a happy one, but a sad one. “But I will always be honest with you. I will kill Petyr Baelish for all that he’s done. And I will be the only one who can. I’m the only one he lets under his skin.”

“Lady Sansa, I am your sworn sword, I will protect you and follow your orders, but you do not have to do this alone.” She tells Sansa stubbornly, but Sansa will not budge. She knows that only she can do this, because if anyone else gets involved he will smell it coming.

She smiles at Brienne. “Thank you. I think you’re one of the few who actually mean that.” She looks down at her hands. “I...am at a loss for the battle to come. I feel so useless. I will be stowed away while everyone else is dying for me.” 

“They fight for you because you are worthy of it: you are worthy of Winterfell and you are the true heir, my lady.” She lets the nerves in her stomach quell as she looks at Brienne.

“Thank you, thank you for searching me out and protecting me. I don’t know what I did to deserve it, but I thank you, Lady Brienne. But I need for you to do something for me.” She looks to her dutifully and nods.

This had been a plan that she’d only shared with Jon, and once Howland Reed arrived, she’d share it with them.

“I want you and Howland Reed to lead an attack on Winterfell. There are tunnels that lead to a secret passageway into the Dungeons. It’s not been accessed in years, near forgotten. When I was a young girl, it was sealed after Robb and Jon snuck out.” It had been Jon that mentioned it to her: she barely remembered it, but the only ones who knew were the closest of Starks. “Almost all of Ramsay’s men will meet us on battlefield, but within the Free Folk ranks is a Giant: he’ll be able to break the seal. From there, you and some few hundred men will take Winterfell from the inside.” Brienne nods, agreeing and then frowns.

“Why would you not tell the Arryns? Or Baelish?” She asks, and Sansa straightens.

“We need to take back the North. Not by the Arryns, and the Free Folk need to immerse themselves into the North. They need to be seen as Northerners.” She nods, but then frowns. “My Lady, you need protection.” She smiles at her, nodding.

“I will stay back with Baelish, as well as a group of Knights and men. I will be safe, Brienne.” She doesn’t believe Sansa, but she knows that her task is important, and so she agrees. 

“I will leave Podrick with you, my lady. I will feel more comforted if he would stay.” Sansa turns back to her, slightly surprised. She narrows her eyes, turning over the request, and nods.

“As you wish, Lady Brienne.” She agrees, and the woman nods, smiling slightly. The blonde haired woman stands tall, and bows to her.

“I will not tell Podrick unless in absolute secrecy, my lady.” She nods to her sworn sword, and stands. 

The night is cold, and it makes her think of winterfell. It makes her think of mother, father, Robb, Arya, Bran, and Rickon. It makes her think of the time before she realized that Jon had been her half-brother rather than her full blood brother. It makes her think of the time where he had been her brother at all, she reminds herself, rather than the cousin that he is now.

She wonders if Lyanna left willingly, or if like she, the woman had been pitted in a plot against her will. And then she thinks of young Jon, whose mother had always been a mystery, and then suddenly was the beautiful woman he’d heard whispers of looking like as a babe and child. It makes her chest ache, it makes her head ache. 

Sansa doesn’t know what it’s like, not truly, at least, to not know oneself. She always knew herself, she just never wanted to admit who she was to anyone. She never wanted to accept that the girl she was always meant to be was the exact opposite of who she wanted to be. And it had cost her father, her family, her maidenhood, and her soft nature. 

Sansa drifts into sleep in her tent, but it’s not fitful. She finds herself drowning with violence, torture, and Ramsay, just as she is every night. In some ways, he was worse than Joffrey. He hurt her so much more than Joffrey did. Joffrey was only a pawn and she could have the sept to pray and stay away from them, but Ramsay actively toyed with her. He raped her, he had Theon watch as he raped her, and she still has the bruises, bite marks, and lashes from his torture.

She wakes with a start, heart near bursting from her chest as she feels something lean against her. 

It’s Ghost. She sinks to the ground, and buries her face in the thick tuft of his fur.

“Sansa?” Jon asks, and she breathes in sharply, having not realized that he had entered her tent. She stands slowly, and gives him a weak smile.

“I’m alright, just a bad dream.”

It’s an understatement, and they both know it. But he doesn’t question her and she doesn’t question him. She stands though, and sits on the wide cot. Jon hesitates, but moves to sit next to her when she reaches her hand out to him. He sits near completely upright, while Sansa lays on her side, and Ghost crawls over their feet to add warmth.

They’d slept like this the first night in Castle Black, and had set out the next day. It had been the first night she slept with fewer nightmares since before father's death. 

“The Reed’s are on their way, Sansa. They’re sticking to the forests Howland Reed is leading them.” He tells her softly, and places a hand in her long hair. He’s kept his basic armor on, but no furs and no true, flashy armor. He looks like Jon, not the God or the Commander they claim him to be. She watches him from above her, and he watches her as well.

“No matter what you chose, Jon, we will always be family.” She tells him softly, and his eyes close, and he nods. 

She takes his hand, and they both fall into a somewhat fitful sleep, waiting for dawn to come.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you see any errors, please let me know! Thank you!  
> -Im_gonna_show_you

The Blood of the Wolf  
Chapter Three

She dreams of Arya more now. She thinks it’s because of Jon. She sees the dark hair and the straight brows more often. It’s her eyes that strike her the most, strong, fierce, and intelligent. Sometimes she’s small, sometimes she’d be the age she is now. She’s always like she was then, impatient, fierce, and strong-willed. 

Sansa feels guilty when she dreams of her. She wasn’t a good sister, she knows. She wasn’t a good sister to Jon or Arya, so hellbent on being proper. She wishes she could scream at herself back then and change her. She wishes that she could rest next to Arya like she does Jon, as he watches over her. Sansa sees the freedom in her eyes, and she hopes and prays that wherever she is, she is happy. 

Sometimes she dreams of Bran and Rickon, but always of before. To Sansa, they would never be anything but. 

The dreams of her mother are always horrible. She dreams of her mother dead, skin blue and rotted. She dreams of her throat cut open to the bone, like Joffrey had gleefully told her. She dreams of her unable to speak, unable to do anything other than stare back into her eyes. She wakes after that, shaking and gasping. 

She wakes Jon and Ghost, and she just buries her face into Jon’s side. He holds her tightly against her. His fingers brush against her shoulder, and it’s bare, the thick fabric having slid down her shoulders. She flinches as he brushes against a bite mark, and he stiffens. 

“He sent his dogs after you?” His voice is gruff and coated with sleep, but angry and furious. 

She shakes against him, her eyes closed as she tries to remember how she got that one. After the third night she had given up fighting, just laid there and dreamt of the last time she went into Godswoods with Arya and Rickon. 

“It wasn’t his hounds, Jon.” She says to him. He flinches hard, but pulls her closer to him.

“He’ll never touch you again, I swear it.” He whispers to her, pressing his face into her hair, and she just buries herself closer into him. She doesn’t reply, just nods against his side.

She knows that. She had been willing to die before he did. She still is. 

“Is...is there...anywhere else?” His voice is unsure, halting, and submerged in hidden rage. She wants to laugh, innocent and moral Jon. He knows the answer, deep down. But he hopes and prays that she somehow stayed unhurt by the butcher Ramsay Bolton. He stands up to his house name, at least.

“He enjoys having toys,” she says instead, and turns to look past his chest to the flap. It’s still dark outside, dawn not having enveloped the camp yet. “How are you comfortable sleeping in armor?” She asks to distract him.

It doesn’t really work, she knows, but he does sit up to unlatch his armor and slip it off. The thick wool material under it. He sits up, and leans against the hardwood of the frame of the cot. Little of this was there’s: technically Sansa was a married woman going against her husbands men. Jon had left Castle Black with little, just the armor on his back, the few thousand Wildlings, longclaw and a bow, Ghost, and Sansa. 

He sits calmly on the cot with her, and she lets herself slip in and out of sleep as she waits for him to decide that it’s actually time to wake up. She lets herself feel safe now, and she hopes and prays that the battle leads to a swift victory, but she knows that battle is bloody and it isn’t easy. She lets her breathing even out and even though it’s cold, she feels grateful to be here instead of in Kings Landing or in Ramsay’s bed. She doesn’t feel happy here, but she feels content, which is more than she’s had in nearly five years. 

He shifts suddenly, and Sansa finds herself pulled out of the soft lull she had eased herself into. He slips himself carefully out of her cot and walks over to the small fire near the center of the tent where he stokes more wood and keeps the fire going. She inhales slowly and sits up, watching him slowly as he does so. Ghost lays his large head on her feet, and she brushes her fingers through his head easily. She smiles as she watches him, and when she turns to Jon she sees him watching her. 

“I...want you there when we speak to Howland Reed.” He tells her quietly, and she feels surprise slip into her body. She doesn’t know why: he already told her. She shouldn’t be surprised that he wanted her there. But sometimes she looks at him and wonders how he can even stand to look at her. She knows who she looks like, it’s all she’s ever been told. She wasn’t kind to him. But she meant what she said last night. They were family. Regardless of who is mother or father was. He could turn out to be the child of a nobody, and he’d still be family to her. She’s lost too much already, she doesn’t want to lose Jon too.

She nods in agreeance, standing and moves over to him quietly. 

“Jon...have you had your wounds looked at?” It opens into a heavier issue, she knows. He’s let no one touch him there since, but if he moves too quickly sometimes, she sees the grimace in his face. “I...I know that you don’t want anyone to touch them, but there is a battle coming, and Ramsay is…” She hesitates, unsure of the word to use for him. He’s so many monstrous things. He steps forward to her, hesitantly.

“I, I will. But...there is a spearwife within the free folk. She’s a healer, Sansa.” She walked into that one, she thinks to herself. She squares her jaw and nods once.

“Just her.” She says, because she already knows implicitly that he trusts her. He places his hand on the side of her face and pulls her forward, pressing his mouth on her forehead. She can feel the roughness of his beard against her nose. 

There’s a knock on the wooden plank outside of the tent, and Sansa permits entry. Petyr walks in, a long, dark gown in his arms. He stops somewhat short at the sight between Sansa and Jon, and he bows his head to Jon. “Lord Snow, Lady Stark. I’ve come to bring Lady Stark a new dress.” His eyes are keen and she knows immediately that he’s planning. He sees something unusual within their contact. Sansa ignores it, pretending to not have noticed.

“Will you thank her for me?” She asks, and Jon nods.

“Of course, she’ll be here later for you. I’ll inform Lady Brienne. I’ll speak to you later.” 

He moves past her and picks up her armor and walks past her. It hits her then how it must look, and Sansa nearly curses herself. But when he leaves Petyr watches her like a hawk. She turns and watches the flap, and she lets herself tremble.

“The...the first night at Castle Black, I...I woke up screaming. Jon, he, he hasn’t left my side since then.” She whispers to him, and she sees his face steel in something akin to anger. He moves forward and she knows he’s going to grovel.

“I’m sorry, Sansa.” She smiles sadly at him before looking down. 

“It doesn’t matter, Petyr. You’re here now. And so is Jon.” She says to him, and places her hand on his own. She can feel the anger and bloodlust stirring in her stomach. He hands her the dress, and he pulls her close to him.

Her skin crawls, but she doesn’t fight him. He presses his cold and rough lips hard against the side of her cheek, and she struggles not to flinch. 

“I will take care of everything.” He says to her ear. He leaves for her to change and it's the first time in a long time that she changes without a maid. Her skin aches and cracks around the edges of the bite marks, scratches, and the bruises on her hips ache. It’s slow work to undress and to redress. Ghost watches over her keenly as she finishes. When she does, she watches Ghost.

“When do you think the game will ever end?” She asks the direwolf. He doesn’t answer, and Sansa takes that as answer.

It’s near half day when Howland Reed and a few of his men slip into camp. The plan is easy: his Hunters will hide in the caves around Winterfell after Ramsay’s men meet Jon, the Free Folk, and Robin’s forces on the battlefield. From there, should anything happen, the Reed men will be able to stop them. 

After, Sansa asks if he would join Jon and Sansa for lunch. He agrees easily enough, but he’s a very laid back man. More different than she’d imagine of a powerful warrior like Howland Reed. He’s attractive, as well, in a rugged northern way. He wears little fine armor, mostly thick hides, leathers, and many knives. They slip into Sansa’s tent easily enough, where one of sweet Robin’s men brings lunch. But none of them sit.

“Lord Reed, I cannot thank you enough for what you’ve done for my family.” Sansa tells him sincerely. He doesn’t smile per se, but he nods in acquiescence.

“Your father was a good man, Lady Sansa. His loss still cuts me today.” He says roughly, voice deeper than she expected. She looks back at Jon, who shifts uncomfortably. 

“We...Jon and I, we’ve learned something about our father.” She tells him, and Lord Reed nods, but doesn’t speak. 

“The Tower of Joy, in particular.” Jon says, voice grating and unsure. Lord Reed looks back at him, gravely and looks back at Sansa.

“You father swore himself and I to secrecy,” he says quietly. “Who told you that?” She looks at Jon, who looks to be at a loss of words, unsure and uncertain how to tell him.

“As you may know, Lord Reed, Jon became Lord-Commander of the Night’s Watch. After he chose to take in the Wildlings,” she says moving to stand next to Jon, “they turned on him. They killed him.” Lord Reed's eyes snap to Jon. “During his...his death he saw things. Saw the Temple of Joy, flickers of what’s to come. When he...when he was revived, he was revived with the knowledge that his mother and father…” She doesn’t finish, and looks to Jon, who watches her hard. She sees the apple in his neck roll as he swallows.

Lord Reed nods, slowly. “The Tower of Joy...your father, Jon, made two of his strongest Knights protect your mum and you. It took so many men to get to Lyanna.” Lord Reed moves to sit, a haunted look in his face. “Ned wouldn’t stop until she was with him. But it was too late. She labored through the night and day with you, but she’d caught a sickness only a few weeks before. By the time you fath-uncle, I’m sorry.” He corrects, before sighing. “He found her near dead, with a boy in her arms, black hair and grey eyes. She made him promise that he’d protect you. She was afraid of what Robert would do to you, after what The Mountain did to Rhaegar’s other children. We both swore ourselves to secrecy. By that night, she was gone. She sang to you and Ned all that day. Wouldn’t put you down...”

Jon is unmoving, frozen in place. Sansa moves to his side, placing a soft hand to the nape of his neck, rubbing slowly and softly.

“Did she love him?” He asks. “Or is it like they say?” His voice is cold, unmoving, and Sansa closes her eyes.

“The stories they tell of her call her a woman-child. She wasn’t much older than you, Sansa. She was beautiful, strong, smart...but Robert, he…” he frowns, like he’s remembering something that he doesn’t want too. “Robert expected her to do her duty and her duty only. Rhaegar...he was a prince. Smart, intelligent, and so sure that she would bear him the final child of the Prophecy. He convinced her aswell, but he promised to never make her give up her dreams. But he never told her of what happened to her father or brother until after she was pregnant. She...she never forgave Rhaegar.” His voice is cloaked in emotion. “She loved you, Jon. And she made him promise that he’d protect you. And he did so by raising you as his own.” Jon is condensing the information, she knows, he’s compiling this all and forcing to understand it. So instead of interrupting him, she brings him to the table and begins to tell Howland Reed the true plan.

“Jon and I lied to you in the council, we have a different plan for you, Lord Reed. Unfortunately, Petyr Baelish has proved himself untrustworthy.” She tells him smoothly. He watches her keenly as she weaves through all of his lies. She can see his rage, anger, and grief slip to the surface as she recounts all that Baelish has involved himself in. “My sworn Sword, Brienne of Tarth, and some of the Wildlings will follow you to the secret passage into Winterfell. I remember father telling me once that you two used to play in the old caverns.” He nods.

“Those were sealed, Lady Stark.” He says, smoothly. She smiles at him.

“The Free Folk have a Giant, he’ll be able to break the seal.” Jon explains, his eyes still hazy and unsure.

“And I will deal with Petyr Baelish. Jon will meet Ramsay on the battlefield, and you and the Wildlings will storm Winterfell. You will leave some of your men here, dressed as Free Folk. We cannot let Petyr know.”

He nods, shifting in his seat before he levels a stare at Sansa. “How do you plan on taking him down?” She shifts, before her eyes flick to Jon.

“It’s quite known that Baelish had a fondness of my mother. The others have begun to notice that he looks at me like he did her.” She says vaguely, and Jon stiffens. “He will come to me, and when he does, I will turn on him. But we have another problem to face, we need someone to marry sweet Robin, he’s...not there. Not completely, and he isn’t intelligent enough to know if someone is manipulating him.” He watches her keenly, before nodding.

“I have a niece, her name is Kyndall. If it comes to it, she is smart enough and strong enough to protect him.” He says calmly. Sansa remembers somewhat, that he has two children, but she dares not ask. 

She simply looks at him with eternal gratefulness. “Thank you, Lord Reed. I cannot express how much this...you are the man my father said you were.” He gives a faint smile before turning to face them both.

“My son and daughter left Greywater to find both of your brothers,” he tells them and Sansa’s blood runs cold. Jon takes her hand firmly as Sansa feels the air swept from her lungs. “My son, Jojen, he...he has the ability to events of the future and present in dreams. He saw the death of your father before word had even reached the North. He saw himself and Meera, bringing Bran to a place of magic. As of now, my niece, Kyndall, is my heir.” 

“I’m sorry,” Sansa struggles out. He nods, thanking her. 

“After we take back Winterfell, we plan on facing House Frey.” Jon tells him, and Sansa doesn’t react, because Jon hasn’t before agreed to that. He told her he wanted them to pay: but never has he agreed to an assault on their lands. “Their lands will then be split and belong to your family, Lord Reed, and whomever you see fit.” She turns, and watching Jon. “In my death, I’ve seen it.” She hadn’t heard of that, but his hands squeeze hers. She can’t find anger in her heart, so she nods.

“I’ve contacted House Tully, but I’ve been informed that they’ve been captured under the Frey’s, with my grandfather murdered at their hands. My uncle Edmure is also under their capture. Jon and I have spoken before of sending a small group to infiltrate theirs to release them and smuggle them from the Freys, before launching an attack.” 

“Davos Seaworth is now within our ranks, he has experience within...smuggling things.” Jon explains quietly. “He will be of great assistance.” 

“In two days, we will meet on the battlefield.” Lord Reed says, and Sansa feels like the cold has finally laid itself down on her. She finds it hard to breath, and takes careful move not to show it. But it seems she fails. “It’s good, that you aren’t happy. War is not made of happy things, its ugly and vicious. Kings seem to forget this: it’s why there’s never enough peace.” She looks at him, and finds herself glad that her father had a friend like this. Kind but sure.

They eat in silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s easy, comfortable. Sansa finds herself pretending it’s her own father here, but towards the end, she finds that he watches them quite a lot. It’s not cold scrutiny, but she finds herself unsure as to why.

It’s only until there’s a knock on the wooden plank holding her tent up breaks the silence, and Jon arises to answer it, and in doing so he releases her hand. She hadn't noticed that he had still held it.

A spearwife walks in, and Sansa finds herself still. She’s a decently pretty woman, with an open and clear face. Her eyes are brown and her hair is a dark blonde. Her nose is long, but it fits her long face. She’s tall, taller than Sansa but nowhere near the height of Brienne. Lord Reed rises, and Jon looks to him calmly.

“I think that you and I should go over logistics, again, Lord Reed. Sansa, this is Hilnora.” Hilnora bows her head in a nonchalant hello and Sansa gives a small smile.

“Hello. Thank you for coming. Lord Reed, thank you for all of your help.” They both leave, and Sansa feels more uncomfortable than she ever has. 

“M’lady, m’not quite sure what he wants m’ta look over.” She says, shrugging. “But I’ve brought all my minor cleanses.” She holds up a bag, and Sansa smiles somewhat unsure.

“I would...appreciate that you would not speak of this to anyone else, Hilnora.” She shrugs, but agrees. Sansa starts by walking across the tent and latching her tent closed first, and then moving to stoke the fire to be warmer. Hilnora is getting impatient she knows, so she begins undressing. Her gloves first: it’s the easiest thing to come off. Then she starts by tying her hair up in a braid, then pinning it in a bun. She hesitates at her furs, but strips them slowly. Then she begins stripping herself of the thick woolen dress. 

After that, she strips herself to waist down of her chemise, and she can hear Hilnora gasp.

She hasn’t seen it before, not all of it. But she knows what it must look like. She feels it every time she lays on her back, every time she wears anything. She knows that it’s ugly, that she’s probably not washed it enough. But if she pretends it’s not there, he’s not hurt her. He has no power over her.

“Just...please clean what needs to be cleaned. I cannot reach most of it.” She says, her voice cold. She doesn’t mean too: but anymore and he’s won. Anymore and he’s there with her, whispering to her in a sweet, cold way that he always had. When he’d touch her softly and smile a sweet smile, but in his eyes she could see the monster he was.

Her stomach rolls in uneasiness, but she holds her breath and counts to ten over and over. She’s silent as she cleans Sansa, and Sansa wonders if she’d seen something like this before. But Sansa remembers that they’re spearwives, taught to fight and taught to be strong physically. Sansa wasn’t like Arya: she’d always had a womanly strength, as Brienne had said to her about her mother. 

She cherishes every burn, every ache as Hilnora washes him from her forever. This is the last of him, she thinks to herself. But her stomach is still uneasy, still rolling, but Sansa ignores it. 

It will go with the War. It will go when her brother captures Ramsay Bolton and hands his head to her on a spike. It will all go.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please let me know of any errors! Thank you,  
> -Im_gonna_show_you

The Blood of the Wolf  
Chapter Four

It’s the middle of the night as she helps him dress. She listens keenly to his every instruction and request. She tightens the latch holding the armor around his waist. It’s from the Arryns, but she’s made him something to distract from that fact. She ties back his hair at his request, runs her hand through his hair and it’s softer than she imagined it be. She tightens his boots as he struggles to bend over to tie them. 

And when she’s done with his armor, she wraps the thick, furred cloak around him, tying a piece around him. He brushes his fingers against the detailed embroidery, and frowns at the wolf. 

“I’m a Snow, Sansa.” He says quietly to her. It’s somber, even though all of the men are readying for battle, it’s quiet with nervous energy.

“You are the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. Even if you chose to renounce that title, you and I will be Lord and Lady Regent of the North.” She tells him, and she watches as his eyes change. “We will protect the North until Rickon is old enough, or until Howland Reed’s children bring Bran back to us. Until then, it is you and I, Jon.” She finishes tying the cloak on him. She takes a step back, and he stands. She’s just barely a few threads taller than he is, but she feels like now, here, he stands taller than she has. She stutters out a breath, before smiling.

“You look like him,” she says. “But maybe more like her, your hair is so dark.” She finishes, and while she doesn’t smile, she looks at him fondly. She brushes back the fur away from his face and she can feel the nervous energy forming in an uneasy stomach. She feels as if she’d vomit: but ignores it.

Her change is coming, she knows. It’s soon, she can feel it.

“You look like your mother,” he tells her. She gives a laugh, it’s kind of a painful one.

“Hopefully you think me kinder.” She loved her mother. She still does: but the older she gets the more she realizes that things are not like the songs she sang as a child. Things are darker than that, colder, harsher. So much...more. Her mother was a strong woman: but she was not without her faults. She hated a babe who had no mother, and she knew that had she known the truth it would have been different. But it shouldn’t have been that way at all.

Just like she shouldn’t have been raped. Or tortured. Or sold off like some piece of cattle for a chance to the North. She takes his hands, bare now, and kisses each one.

“I will pray to the Gods for your safe return.” She says to him. He nods to her, and she can feel words catch in her throat. She wants to tell him more, but tears threaten to fall. So instead, she places her hand on the side of his face and steps closer to him. She presses her lips firmly to his temple, then embraces him for what could be the last time. Sansa prays, begs, and needs him to survive. “Come back to me, Jon. Promise me,” she whispers to him. His arms wrap around her, and he holds her firmly to her. 

“I promise you.” He whispers back, but he doesn’t let her go. The last time she left, it took years to find herself back to him. But she pulls away, and stares at him hard.

“When this is over, we will have Rickon. We will have our home.” 

Sansa sees Brienne next, who readies away from the prying eyes of others, and her new suitor, Tormund. Sansa is quiet with her, but she smiles.

“Thank you, for everything, Brienne. I...you protected my mother, and kept her vow. You protected me and now you’re helping me take back my home. I don’t know what I did to deserve to have you, but thank you.” Brienne look startled, but Sansa means it. She’s not a good person: she’s foolish, she’s cold, and now she’s willing to kill a man in cold blood. 

“You, My Lady, are the best of most ladies. I am honored to fight for you.” She tells her, and Sansa smiles, it’s sad and it’s painful.

“I will pray for you, Brienne. I pray that you make it back.” Brienne bows her head.

“If I do not, my lady, I will do so knowing that I have made your name proud.”

 

The wind is cold and frigid against Jon’s body, but he doesn’t feel cold. A part of wonders if it’s the Dragon or the wolf, within him. The sigil on his chest says wolf, but the piece of his mind that whispers doubt breaths fire against his eyes. 

He sits on the front lines with Tormund and Lord Royce. He steels himself, because when he looks into the smirking face of Ramsay Bolton, he wants to rip and shred him to pieces and burn his flesh to make sure that he never has a chance to come back, like he himself did.

“The Bastard of Ned Stark, how kind of you to hand yourself over. Though, to be truthful, it’s my bride I want. I’ve missed her in my bed: she warmed it quite well.” He tells him, and he can see the viciousness in his smile. He wonders, for a second, what he had been thinking when he told Sansa he didn’t want to fight. This man: he was just as mad as the Mad King, he realizes. Your grandfather, the piece of him that breaths fire hisses. 

“The North doesn’t belong to you, Ramsay Snow. It never has. Joffrey was a Lannister; a false King bred to Cersei Lannister by her own flesh and blood brother.” Jon finds himself saying. He watches as Ramsay’s face goes cold, and he can feel it sweep across the battlefield. “The North belongs to Sansa, and Sansa alone.” The men around him mutter, and Tormund finds himself seething at the sight of the men around him.

“You bring Wildlings into the North, you break your vows, you steal my wife away from me, and now you claim that I am a Bastard? Such tall words for such a cowardly man.” Jon doesn’t get angry: Sansa’s told him his true intention will be to get under his skin before they fight. So instead, he does was Sansa would do, and taunts him back.

“The Wildlings are under protection of Sansa, heir and Queen to Winterfell and the North. When I kill you, she’ll be giving them Dreadfort, to replace the traitorous excuse of your house.” Tormund, beside him shifts, and the Wildlings around him look up in confusion. “All you’ll ever be, Snow, is a Bastard. It’s best you understand that now. All your power lies within Sansa: the true heir to house Stark, and Rickon. Once I kill you, and all of the traitors that follow you, I’ll save the boy you so cowardly locked up for fear of. Tell me, Snow? How does it feel to be scared of a boy years from being a man?” Jon asks back, and he hears the echo of Ramsay’s sneer across the fields. But there’s a rumble from Ramsay’s men. They shift, and he notices too, because he yells out to Jon.

“You’re nothing but a pretender, Snow! Your own father made you join the Night's Watch? I wonder, what has Sansa done for you to face me? She been warming your bed too? Your father sent you off to a life of celibacy, tell me, was Sansa the first woman you touched?” This makes his blood boil, and Jon sees red. But he takes a breath, like Sansa had told him too, and thinks before he speaks.

“My name is not Snow.” He says first, and he wonders if it matters to Sansa if he doesn’t come back as Jon Snow, but as Jon Targaryen. He guesses that it does, but so long as he comes back that’s all it matters to her. “I fight for the North because it’s in my blood: my mother’s blood, my uncle's blood. My cousin, Sansa,” he says, and the men around him shift, unsure and confused. “Is the heir to Winterfell. And I, son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen, support and fight for her claim against you, the Bastard Son of a traitorous family. No longer will you hurt her, and you, Ramsay Snow, are the pretender.” He hears yelling behind Ramsay, and his ranks begin to shift. They begin to rebel. “Sansa of House Stark is the true Warden of the North, the true Queen of the North, and I will give it to her.”

The ranks collide: but by the time that Jon and Ramsay collide, he realizes that Ramsay’s ranks have collapsed in on itself.

The North Remembers.

Ramsay is strong and Jon is still healing, but where Ramsay is violence and chaos, Jon is controlled and intelligent. Sansa was right, Ramsay is impulsive, chaotic, and vicious. But she was also right to say it will be his downfall.

In the chaos, Ramsay is knocked off his horse. For a second, Jon thinks of ending him here. But he knows that if he does, it would spit on the memory of his father, the one who raised him to be the man he was today. Perhaps not the one who created him, but the one who made him. Ramsay is strong, thrusting his sword down on Jon, but he blocks it. Jon’s eyes narrow at the strange technique Ramsay uses, or perhaps the lack of. But he remembers something his father had told him as a child: an untrained man with a sword can be just as dangerous as a man trained with one, if you underestimate him.

The next swing is a near-killing one, but Jon evades uncomfortably, the ache in his chest making him stiff. He evades another swing, before taking one of his own. Ramsay barely evades, but he is cut by Jon’s next swing. And once he gets cut, it’s an onslaught. But Jon isn’t able to get a real hit, Ramsay is quick, but he has no real technique. He’s all chaos and impulsiveness. It makes it hard to guess his next hit. But Ramsay isn’t talented with a sword, he struggles to guess it’s radius and it’s strength. After a particularly hard slice on his side, Ramsay snarls like a hound and lunges forward, nearly knocking Jon down. Jon swings his leg back, and their swords collide.

“You must have had her, why would you fight for her so?” Ramsay yells, a vicious smile on his face. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she? And her cunt-” Jon throws him back, moving quickly and lunging, swinging over and over. Ramsay laughs, head thrown back as he dodges, but Sansa was right. He’s impulsive. He wants to do more damage than anything. It’s his downfall, she said to him.

Jon takes the opening, and lunges forward again, longclaw imbedding itself in the side of his chest. Ramsay’s eyes widen and he goes to thrust his sword towards him, but Jon grabs his arm, and throws it back. Ramsay looks surprised, and Jon forces him down. 

“How does it feel, Ramsay? To lose everything to a soldier fighting in your wife's place?” He asks, his voice cold. “You’ll never be anything but a Bastard.” He practically snarls, and forces the blade down into his chest farther. The farther it goes, it cuts open his chest out until his sword slides out of the side of his chest cavity, leaving a gaping hole in his side. Blood spurts from his mouth and his eyes roll back. Jon pulls Longclaw from him, and Ramsay falls to the ground. It’s not satisfying. It doesn’t make him feel better, but he didn’t do this for himself.

Maybe Sansa will be able to sleep through a night without crying. 

All around him is chaos: Ramsay’s men turning against themselves, and both Arryn and Wildling armies pull back, unsure and confused to who to fight. 

“She was right, wa’nt she? Seven Hells, I’ve neva’seen anythin like this.” Tormund says, looking both confused and elated. 

Jon feels it: The North Remembers.

 

Sansa is alone with Petyr when she readies their tea. Shes’ ready for this, but first she wants answers. She’s instructed Pod to stay out until she screams twice, feign shock, if he has too, and stay far enough away to have to run, but not far enough as to be suspicious. Talk amongst the others, if he has too.

“That’s a strong smelling tea,” Petyr says amiably. She nods, and hands him his.

“The Wildlings make it, their ale, however, is practically undrinkable. Tormund drinks it like water, and how he does so makes no sense to me.” She converses back, before sitting down across from him. She lets her tiredness show through.

“My lady, I must say that I am thankful that you took my help.” He says, and this is where he will try to worm his way through to her.

“I’m too tired to turn my back on those who want to help, Petyr. But I...I need something from you.” She looks into his guarded eyes, and she looks at him genuinely. His shoulders sink somewhat. He sighs with a nod. But she knows that some questions are off the table, so she sticks with something that she knows he’ll answer.

“What do you want to know, my lady?” Sansa looks back at him, and takes a sip of her tea and closes her eyes.

“The...the day that Aunt Lysa tried to throw me through the moondoor, she said that anyone who stands between me and Petyr...they die.” She whispers quietly.

“Sansa-”

“Their deaths are long over, Petyr. After what you’ve done for me, it doesn’t matter to me anymore. But she was the last thing that I had of my mother. I just...this started somewhere, I want to know where. Mother told me that she hadn’t always been so...so…”

“Unstable?” He offers, and drinks his tea. She nods, and waits for his answer. “I...I was always in love with your mother, Sansa. But, she was like you, always willing to do her duty.” He taps his fingers against the wooden table and Sansa watches him closely, but not with judgement. She wants the truth. “I loved your mother, but she did not love me. Your aunt...she did. After your mother rejected me for the last time, and I was humiliated by your uncle, she went to bed with me.” Sansa nods, and sips her tea, but has trouble keeping her hand from trembling. “I was wrong to have encouraged her. But...three months later, her father made her drink moon tea. She bled the whole night, and the next time I saw her, she was never the same.” 

Sansa feels the bile raise, and now she understands. She finishes her tea and watches the tremble of Petyr’s hands. It’s already begun. She stands and moves to him. She gives him her hands, and he takes them. He hasn’t realized it yet, but when he rises he stumbles. He goes to say something, but she grabs him instead, and pulls him to her. She kisses him then, and she can feel the disgust well in her stomach. He’s slower, stumbling and struggling. But when she pulls away, she slaps herself, hard. Tears spring around her eyes, and Petyr stumbles back. She does it twice more, enough that she can feel the burning, the ache, and blood in her mouth. And then she pulls Petyr to her, falling backwards on the ground.

He gasps, confused, and tries to pull away. Sansa forces her skirts up, and screams, long and loud. She grabs the fork she’d stuffed into her dress arm earlier and screams again, shoving the fork deep and hard into his neck.

He yells, blood spurting out of his mouth and onto her face. He looks at her, eyes widened, and she screams again as the tent door is thrust open by Pod and other men. Pod rips Petyr off of her, and dives for her, dragging her away, and she keeps screaming, crying, and her heart is in her throat. 

“H-he-he t-tried!” She yells, and she’s grasping at Pod tightly. She buries herself in his chest and she can feel it coming: the wolf in her is clawing against her insides. “He-he-he-k-kept t-touching me, I b-begged him to stop!” 

And then she hears the horn. Her blood goes to ice then, and she thinks herself foolish for a moment. She underestimated him and his intelligence. 

“They’ve breached the camp.” Then she hears barking, and her blood runs cold. Pod lets go of her and runs from the tent with the Wildlings, sword in hand.

She hears screaming, and she strips herself from her dress.

And then she lets the wolf in her blood slip out of her.

 

The difficulty had come with slipping under the radar with a giant: but Sansa had sewn together so many furs he looked more like a large animal, rather than a large man. When Howland and Brienne reach the caverns, the trouble relies on being able to see. 

Howland is suited for this, moving around gracefully and leading his men through the cavern. The six hundred men who struggle to follow them and struggle under darkness and the small torches they’d brought. But by the time they make it to the huge door, Brienne wonders if they truly will be able to break it. The Giant begins at it first, hitting and slamming himself against the the door. It budges, slowly, as he slams himself against it again and again.

It moves hardly an inch after inch, until suddenly he slams himself against it and then is thrust forward. They hear yelling on the other side of the door. Brienne and Howland move out first, and then their men follow closely. She clashes with a few men, taking them down with ease, just as Howland Reed does behind her. But there’s just a few men. And when she looks through the dungeons, and finds a tall, gangly boy with wild and curly brown hair, wild eyes, and a bruised face, she knows who he belongs to.

“Rickon Stark,” She says, and steps forward, bowing her head. “I come in the name of your sister, Sansa Stark.” The boy looks confused, but mutters the word sister once, and then twice before nodding.

The Giant, half bent over uncomfortably, rips off the door to the dungeon. The boy looks in vicious wonder, before stepping out.

“The Bastard took ‘is men. Barely any’re still here.” He says, voice thick like a Wildling. It seems the Howland Reed notices this too, but doesn’t speak against it. They both look at each other, and nod.

“We’re taking back Winterfell, Lord Stark.” The boy grins, ear to ear before he walks past them and grabs a bow and arrows.

He turns back at their stunned silence, but doesn’t seem to understand. “Well?” Brienne looks back at Howland, who nods.

“I’ll watch his back.” He says.

 

By the time Jon makes it back to their tents, it’s near half day. He’s left most of his men in charge, Tormund and Lord Royce, and he rides hard to make it back to camp. When he gets there, he finds bodies of Bolton’s men. His heart freezes in his chest as he bolts towards Sansa’s tent, only to find it empty, Petyr Baelish’s dead body, already cold, eyes frozen in a surprised stare, fork in his neck. 

“Sansa!” He yells, running towards sound, and when he stumbles upon the crowd, he sees men breathing heavy, struggling under tiredness, and he watches as a wolf, red and brown, finishes off two more hounds. Podrick is protecting it’s side, and when Jon moves forward, killing men and slashing before grabbing Podrick.

“Where is Sansa?” He snaps, fury rising from his belly. Podrick stutters, before looking down at the wolf.

Jon freezes, before finding himself stare at her in confusion.

And then the wolf begins shifting, limbs becoming longer, bones popping, fur slipping into skin, as she stands at full height, long, vibrant red hair resting over the soft swell of her breasts, soft blue eyes, scratches, bite marks, and trembling skin. Jon finds himself moving, ripping off his cloak as he hurries to wrap it around her bare shoulders without even realizing it. 

“Sansa,” he whispers, and she buries herself into his furs. Her body is warm, and he wonders how he could have missed this: how he could have missed that Sansa was a real wolf, like her ancestors, like their ancestors, had been. 

“You came back,” she whispers. He pressed his lips to her hair and nods. He can hear her erratic breathing, her uneven gasping, and he wonders how he had missed this again, how could he have not seen her change. 

“And I bring you Winterfell.” He tells her, and she pulls away, her eyes bright with happiness and relief. “The North Remembers, Sansa. His own men turned on him.”

“He spoke of you well,” Hilnora says from behind them, and he nearly forgot that he had come with others. Her eyes are serious. “Revealed himself as a Targaryen, and said he’s fightin’ in your honor’ndall.” 

She looks back at him, and finds herself staring into the eyes of Jon Targaryen, instead of Jon Snow. And she wonders deeply, what this now means for them. What it means for the North, for Westeros.

“Davos has already left with a few men. And you and I, we will return to Winterfell and to Rickon.” She smiles, tears in her eyes, and he wonders how long it’d been that they had truly felt this way. Seeing Sansa had made him happy: but to have their home back, to have their family back? How long has it been? She embraces him again, whispering her thanks over and over and over again. Once she’s dressed, once Petyr Baelish’s body is moved, she rides with Jon. They ride quickly, and around them she hears whispers of the Wolf Queen of the North, but she feels like a pretender.

Robb had been the true Wolf. And maybe even Arya. Sansa had rejected that piece of her. But she would protect the North in their name. When they get to the gates of Winterfell, they open for them. Five stand waiting for them. Lord Royce, Tormund, Lord Reed, and Brienne. But it’s not those four that she watches, it’s the young gangly boy she stares at. He looks like father, he looks so much like father. And now, she knows that Jon looks like his mother. 

Jon dismounts from the Horse, and helps her dismount as well, her body aches, but when Rickon grins, and throws himself forward towards her, he runs to her and throws himself around her. She stumbles, but hugs him tightly. 

Jon moves around them both and Rickon laughs pulling away.

“Mother! Father!”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've never read the books. But I spent a lot of time reading up on the books and the things that have been left out. So I've pieced in some of the characters, mainly the awesome women I've read of, that I hope will eventually be included in the show. Including: Alys Karstark, Wylla Manderly, and Wynafred Manderly. Again, if you find any errors, please let me know!  
> -Im_gonna_show_you

The Blood of the Wolf  
Chapter Five

They spend days mending the injured, spend days finding housing for the free folk, days spent explaining the death of Lord Petyr Baelish, and it’s then that she tells sweet Robin that she knows someone that could be his friend and wife one day. He’s unsure, scared and afraid of being without Petyr or his mother. But Sansa promises that she’s trustworthy, smart, and kind. 

Lord Reed tells him that she’s pretty, too. And when she arrives she has to agree with that sentiment. She’s not much younger than Arya would be, and older than Robin. But she has long, pretty blonde hair that curls in ringlets. Her face is small, heartshaped, and her almond eyes show intelligence. She’s kind, speaking to him openly. Lord Royce is forced to accept this new lady with open arms. 

It’s Rickon she struggles with, he refuses to call her and Jon anything other than mother and father. When she looks at Jon she sees the same confliction she has. Rickon refuses to be anywhere without one of them, and she can’t blame him, it was difficult, and still is sometimes, to be away from Jon and Rickon. But it hurts to hear him call her mother and speak of their mother. Just as it must hurt Jon when he speaks of him as he is father.

He’s wild, ferocious, and a strong fighter. It worries her. Not because he’s like a Wildling, but because he just...he’s so young. He deserves a chance at being a child, before the world rips it from him. She tells Jon, this, but he just hushes her, and tells her to give him some time. But Rickon is barely ten, he doesn’t have time, she wants to yell at him. Their enemies are close, and they won’t stop until they gain on them. Jon is certain that once Rickon feels safe, that he’ll pull himself out of whatever he imagines. 

Word has slipped out about her ability to transform, and Sansa knows that while the Wolf Queen of the North is a good namesake, it also puts her family at risk. And with Jon having exposed himself, she wonders how much more time they have together in peace. But once Ser Davos Seaworth releases her uncle, she knows that the Tully’s will join them. 

Sansa sits in her parents old room, brushing her hair slowly as she stares herself in the mirror. Roose Bolton had resided here, but since then she’s torn out everything that was his and burned it, and gave whatever was useful metal to the smiths. She shredded all the fabrics that had their sigil. 

And when she was done she began to sew. She sews her sigil, over and over again. She does so for days, until even inane things have her house on them. And when Jon and Rickon arrive for dinner, they eat together. And when they’re done she sews as she watches as Jon teaches Rickon to read, she sits on a chair near the fire, and every night Rickon and Jon read over the pages of the books that they’d learned to read from. Jon is so sweet and patient with him, and it makes her heart ache. It makes her think of father.

But Sansa sews on, fixing the holes in Jon, Rickon, Brienne, Pod, and Tormund’s clothing. It’s the fifth night after Sansa puts Rickon to sleep with a tale her mother used to tell, and a song she once heard from the Septa. When he’s asleep in the room adjourned from hers, his old room and the old nursery. Jon takes her hand, and Ghost watches over Rickon. She doesn’t know where he leads her, but she follows anyways. 

They go down to the crypts, and Sansa understands why she’s here. She holds his hand tight and he threads their fingers together, rather than just loosely holding her hands. They stand together, and Sansa knows who they look like now. Those of Winterfell have continuously done double takes, and she hears the whispers. Not just of who they remind them of, but how he fights like Rhaegar.

Sansa leads him to her aunt Lyanna, and his mother. Jon approached warily, but doesn’t stay back. He looks her over, and frowns. “Do you think things would have been different, had she not have died?”

Sansa frowns, because honestly, she does not know. Would she have married Robert? Would she have returned to Winterfell? Would she and Jon been chased out of Dorne to the free cities like Daenerys had? “I...I don’t know.”

He nods, but turns to her. “Why didn’t you tell me you could change, Sansa?” She frowns to him, and shrugs.

“I...I thought that you could too. Since I could, I thought we all could.” He frowns at her, and suddenly she feels very unsure of herself.

“Sansa, there hasn’t been a Stark who has changed in four generations. Even f-” he pauses, frowning. “Even your father has never met one.” She narrowed her eyes at him, unsure and confused.

“They said Robb changed into a wolf,” she said quietly. “Said that he himself could shift his skin and ride into battle as a wolf. Father always said that it arises when there’s a great need, but...we all carry it Jon, it’s in us all.”

He frowns at her, and took her hand. “Sansa, Robb could not change. They said that to inspire hope, but he was unable to change like you.” Sansa can feel the dread slip into, but it stems in guilt. She’s not worthy, she knows. She isn’t worthy of the title.

“I...I thought…” Jon doesn’t press her. But her mind races, she could feel the others, she could feel that she wasn’t the only one. But here she is, alone, even Jon unable to change like she. So she stays quiet. 

But when he brings her back to her room that night, she stops him before he leaves. It isn’t easy, sleeping without him. She struggled, every night, and she embraces him tightly. She doesn’t want to let go, and she holds him longer than she probably should. When she lets go, she smiles at him. It’s small, and it’s tired. “Thank you, Jon.” She wants to ask him to stay, but now that he is no longer a Snow, no longer her brother, she knows it’s not proper. She knows that it’ll start more than they can handle.

“Sleep well, Sansa.” He says thickly, and she knows that he wants the same as her. But they’re tied by honor, and duty. It’s no longer just them anymore. Now they have Rickon and the North. So they let each other go.

 

The next morning Sansa wakes quietly, it hadn’t been a good sleep. She dreamt of her mother this time, staring at her in the Frey’s river, boring into her eyes as she dripped with blood and screamed a soundless scream. She could see the bone in her neck, and she woke up silently, but shaking. She brings herself to stand and when she goes to the window, she finds it’s hardly even light out. She slips into Rickon’s room, and sits at the rocking chair she remembers her mother rocked Arya, Bran, and Rickon in. She wonders absentmindedly, if she would do the same one day. But that thought brings too much pain, so she ignores it and just watches Rickon as he sleeps. She misses her mother, she misses her father. She misses Robb and Arya and Bran.

He looks like father, the shape of his face and the color of his hair. She imagines it’s like looking into the past. But he even sleeps wild, he lays on his back, a hand in hair and leg twisted out of the bed. So she stands, and slips him gently back under the covers, and kisses his forehead. And then she leaves. 

She dresses quickly, methodically, brushing her hair and pulling it into two small braids in the front and then braiding her hair all the way down her back, pinning the first to braids into the longer braid. Then she dresses in a neutral grey dress, slips on boots, her furs, and readies herself for the day. But when she hears a knock on the door, she frowns. She opens it silently, and finds Brienne waiting for her.

“Oh, your grace, I apologize, but we have two women and a child in your solar, one claims to know you, and the other one that travelled with her refused to speak to anyone but you, first. Podrick is waiting with them.” She frowns, but nods. She slips from her room, and closes the door. When she sees a maid, she stops to speak with her.

“Hello, if you could wake Jon, and tell him to meet me in my solar whenever he is ready,” the woman nods and Sansa smiles. “Thank you.” She continues on to her solar, and when she opens the door, she freezes. 

The woman there is pale faced, brown eyed and brown haired. She’s beautiful, with a scar running down the left side of her face, from beneath where her cheek slopes up, down her face and down to her neck, where it continues on. Her hair is swept back, braided cleanly. The dress she wears is thick, but not a clean dress and cloak. Both are riddled with holes and riddled with tears. There’s a small boy at her side, dark haired and adorable, his eyes wide as he looks around, and he’s probably around two or three. His face is thinner than she imagines a small one should be, but his cheeks are bright and flushed.

“Jeyne,” she whispers. The girl tries to smile, but it’s broken. And Sansa knows.

She turns to look at the girl, whose nearly, gaunt she’s so thin. She has a pointed face, pointed chin, but she’s pretty, with blue eyes and dark, dark brown hair that’s woven into a braid. She fares better, with thick clothing. But she looks worried and unsure.

Sansa pauses, before turning to Podrick. “I think this conversation is better suited for women, Pod. Please, though, can you grab a maid and have breakfast sent up for us, and something for the child. Thank you for watching them.” He nods, and bows his head.

When he’s gone, Sansa steps forward slowly. “And who might you two be?” Sansa asks quietly. Jeyne steps forward, smiling unsure.

“I...if you would please listen before you decide out the fate of her, please, your grace.” She says carefully, and Sansa frowns, but nods.

“My name is Alys Karstark, and I’ve come to beg forgiveness and safety from my cousin, Cregan. I know what my father did was traitorous and cruel, and I simply wish to join you, the Wolf Queen of the North, and have safety from my horrible cousin, the heir to the Karstark House.” She tells her, her voice strong and compassionate. 

Sansa takes a deep breath, and wonders for a second what this could lead to. Her cousin isn’t the real heir, she knows. Alys is, which means that whoever she marries will take her house, should her cousin fall on the field. But her family turned against Robb, her brother. What does Sansa want House Stark to be remembered by? Their revenge? Or their forgiveness. But then she remembers that Alys is just a woman in the eyes of her family, never given a choice. She would have had no power to stop the likes of her father or brothers or cousins or uncles.

“She saved me, Sansa, I mean, your grace,” Jeyne starts. “After the Boltons took Winterfell, they gave me to Cregan. He...he forced me to a child, and while I love this child, he is not a good man. She saved me, and Vayon and I.” And Sansa remembers Jeyne’s father, Vayon, had been kind to them all. She smiles gently at the small child, who blushes and shies away.

Then the door opens, and Tormund and Jon walk in, only to pause, when Jeyne flinches backwards. Sansa stands, smiling in a careful way. “Jeyne, you’ve met my cousin, Jon.” And Jeyne looks confused for a moment. “He is the son of my aunt Lyanna, and Rhaegar Targaryen. He was raised as my half-brother to protect him. And this is Tormund Giantsbane, a trusted man who fought with and for Jon. No harm will come to any of you.” She nods, slowly, and Tormund makes a face at the little babe, who giggles and hides himself in his mother’s skirt.

She turns to Jon, who watches her carefully, before stepping forward, to whisper in her ear. “More Wildlings have come from the Wall, they’re called the Thenns. They’re being led by a young man named Sigorn, and they want to join us. Tormund says Sigorn is young, but intelligent and willing to barter for peace and fight for us, a good man. They’re bringing more children and refugees.” She closes her eyes for a second, and turns to look to Alys.

“Tell me, Alys, you’ve come to apologize on behalf of your family and to seek safety, but if I told you Jon and I would marry you to a man, with an army that could take your home back, should you be loyal to House Stark, and a man who would be good, what would you say?” Jon watches and she can pinpoint the exact moment he begins to realize what’s going on, and he nods.

She steps forward and bowed her head. “Your grace, I came to you and would have been willing to work within your castle for safety, I would have given you anything, my clothes, my livelihood, even my dying horse. What they say of you is true, that you are kind and strong. I do not deserve my house, for my father burned that name to the ground when he killed innocent children. I will do as you ask, and I will marry this man, and he and I will rule our family to forever be loyal to House Stark, I vowe it, your grace.” And she feels Jon stiffen beside her, but she doesn’t acknowledge it.

“The man you will marry is named Sigorn Thenn. He leads men to Winterfell now, along with children and refugees to join us. Together, you will create House Thenn.” She tells her, and she bowes lowe.

“Thank you, your grace. I will defend your house to my last dying breath, as my family should have.” She tells her, and stands straight.

Then Sansa turns to Jeyne, and she smiles to her. “Jeyne, you are welcome to stay here, in this castle with your son. You will always be welcome here.” Jon takes her arm again, and whispers to her quietly.

“Davos has sent a letter, I have not opened it.” She frowned, and turned to him. “It is addressed to the Queen of the North.” She nods, slowly, before turning to a maid who has entered with food.

“If you would be so kind to bring these women some of my woolen dresses, I have a few just newly made. And if you also could be so kind to procure some clothing for the little one as well?” The maid nods her head and Sansa smiles. “Thank you.” Then she turns to the women. “I’m sorry, but I have some urgent business to attend too. If you all would, my cousin and brother meet me every night to have dinner, if you’d like, meet us here just after sundown.” She invites them, and turns to leave with Tormund, Brienne, and Jon. 

When they leave the room, she turns to Jon. “What is it?” He turns to her, his dark eyes smoldering in intensity and uncertainty.

“The Red Woman, she told me a woman would come here, on a dying horse asking for repentance and safety.” Sansa frowns, but nods slowly.

“Not all Prophecies come true, and those that do could simply be greensight.” She tells him quietly, and he nods. But she can see the confusion and uncertainty in his eyes. Instead of dispelling it, she locks arms with him, telling him silently that she will support him no matter his decision.

They walk quickly to what was Father’s solar, and is now Jon’s. When she enters it, she almost smiles. Two days earlier she had handed him different fabrics and flags with both the Stark and Targaryen sigils. He’d taken it warily, and she told him that if he wanted to claim his fate, he also had to accept it. Over the fireplace are two Flags, one Stark and one Targaryen. The room has been decorated sparsely, but she can tell he practically lives in here, a small cot in the corner of the room.

He hands her the letter, and she lets out a heavy breath before opening it and reading it out loud.

To the Queen of the North,  
I bring hopeful news. Last night, in the middle of the night I and a woman, named Wylla Manderly, released your uncle and many Stark followers, including Brynden Tully, Maege Mormont, and their attendants, I led them from the Frey stronghold and they’ve returned to their lands. House Manderly, led by Lord Wylis, has pledged his allegiance to you.   
However, it seems that House Bolton managed to get a bird out before you finished taking Winterfell, they know that you have taken back your home, and are waging armies, and it is only a matter of time before the Lannisters know as well, though they currently seem to be settling themselves into their own civil war. But word has also gotten out about your cousin, Jon, has risen from the dead and that he claims to be a Targaryen. These are slower moving rumors but if the Lannisters hear of this before our armies are ready, we could be in more danger than we were ready for. House Tully, under Edmure and Brynden are currently gathering their forces while the Manderly’s are currently on their way back home and will fight with you, as well as the houses that had been sworn to them. I must also say, that House Karstark seems to be incredibly riled by Cregans runaway bride and bedwarmer, as he calls her. They seem ready to wage war.   
I will be back in a few days, and hopefully you will hear word from the Manderly’s before I return.  
Davos Seaworth

Sansa folds the note, and wonders how she should feel. 

“Well, who do we go after first?” Tormund asks, and Sansa finds herself at a lack of words. She looks to Jon, but he’s looking to her.

“I...am open to suggestions.” She says, and struggles not to feel ashamed. But it’s Brienne who speaks first.

“Alys Karstark has sworn herself and her house to you, if we marry her and the Wildling, we will allow time for your uncle to gain his army, and take down the Frey’s together. You will also have all of the North. Well, once you decide who takes over the Umber stronghold.” And then Sansa nods, and turns to Tormund.

“I’ve offered you Dreadfort before, Tormund. And now I offer you a choice between Dreadfort and the Last Hearth. It’s closest to the wall, of all of the Northern Houses. You’ve fought for me, you’ve fought for Jon, and everyday more and more Wildlings flee for behind the wall. If they new that you, a man who stood with the King behind the Wall, was the first of the Houses to open their arms to them, perhaps they would not wait as long to come, and perhaps more would survive.” She says, looking to him in earnest. He looks at her hard, before he grins.

“M’not exactly Lord material, y’grace.” He tells her, and she smiles.

“Perhaps if more men were like you, we would not be divided as we are now.” She tells him honestly, and truthfully. And he pauses for a moment, and looks at Brienne, who glares coldly back at him. He turns back to her, and grins.

“Well, I guess that the Last Hearth will be seeing a new Lord, under the name Giantsbane.” She smiles to him, and stands to the map on Jons map. 

“Umber’s may not take well to having a Wildling Lord.” Brienne warns, and Sansa nods knowingly.

“But it was the Wildling men and women who carried them from the battlefield after they turned on their lord. It was the Wildling men and women who helped them heal from their injuries. And it will be a Wildling Lord that will redeem their home.” Sansa says.

“Now we must find someone to take Dreadfort.” Jon says to her, and she nods again.

“That...that will come. Once Sigorn Thenn comes and marries Alys, we will take back Karstark. And then...we’ll move onto the Freys with Uncle Edmure.” She says, nodding slowly. “We need to unite the North first, because we are the first line of defense for the White Walkers. But we need to unite the North and Tully’s as soon as possible: once the Lannisters and Tyrell’s find that you are the true heir to the throne, they will stop at nothing to destroy you.” She tells him, turning to face him. “And you may just have to prove that you are a Targaryen.” He looks at her and she looks at him. And they both know that this semblance of peace they’ve held on is about to go up in flames.


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check out the notes at the end of the chapter! Thank you!

The Blood of the Wolf  
Chapter Six

It took a four day journey for the Thenn’s to make it to Winterfell. There, they met Tormund, Jon, Brienne and Sansa outside of the Castle, but just inside of Winterfell. They’re men are large, bruting, but they have more sophisticated armor and weapons than the rest of the Free Folk. Signorn isn’t a very attractive man by Southern standards at all. But he has a strong face, broad, cut sharp. His hair was slightly receding, but it was dark, and he was not much taller than Sansa. He looks like he has a perpetual scowl, and soot and ash are spread across his face in patterns. He looks at Sansa with a cold stare, just as he looks at Jon.

“This is the Queen of the North, Sansa Stark,” Tormund starts, but Sigorn scowls. 

“A lady unable to fight is Queen?” Brienne goes to move forward, a hand on her sword. But Sansa moves her hand out to stop her. Jon rises to full height beside her, but it’s Tormund that speaks first.

“Watch your mouth, Thenn, she can change into a wolf, rip your throat out like she ripped out the Bastard Bolton’s men.” His glare lets up, but she can see the distrust in his eyes.

“Jon and Tormund tell me that the Thenns are a bit different than the rest of the Free Folk. You have houses, and Lords.” She says calmly. 

He glares, but nods. “Aye, we do.” He’s got nearly five thousand fighting men, and three thousand babes, sick, and old. She smiles at him, gracefully.

“For your loyalty, Lord Sigorn Thenn, I offer you a bride. Her name is Alys Karstark. She’s the heir of the Karstark family and the only heir to the Karhold that isn’t in southern custody, giving her control to Karhold and all of the Karstark’s men, but her cousin claims himself heir and claims that she is his intended and that she has been stolen from him. We plan to march there next, to take back Karhold. If you chose to marry her, you will be Lord of Karhold, and you will lead all of the men sworn to Aly’s family.” She tells him smoothly, and he looks at her strangely before turning to Tormund.

He grins, “Please boy, you’re lookin at Lord Tormund Gianstbane of the Last Hearth. Sh’ain’t lyin to ya, lad. She don’t care about old bad blood, she’s mor’focused on securing the North. You’ll get land, a castle, and a bride.” He tells him. And then Sigorn Thenn frowns and looks to her.

“You want me to bow?” He demands, and Jon glares going to step forward, but Sansa places her hand on his shoulder. And then she shakes her head.

“I want to unite my people. I want to protect the North, and you and your people are apart of the North. All of these years we’ve fought, to what? Now we face a greater threat than any before. I request that you abide by our laws, but your culture is not necessarily immoral, and as such certain laws will be struck down. If you chose to bow to me, then I will be grateful. If you chose to not to, I ask that you are loyal to the North. Alys Karstark is a good woman and she’s strong. She left her family and all she had, to do what she thought was right. She is willing to marry a complete stranger and marry a man who could very well be cruel to keep her home safe, and for that, I ask that you are kind to her.” She tells him genuinely, and he nods slowly. She watches as his eyes twitch as he mulls over her declaration, before squaring his jaw and nodding.

“I don’t bow to noone, but I will be loyal to you. And I will accept the marriage proposal. And in turn I lend you the power of my men.” She nods.

“The people you’ve brought are more than welcome to attain medical attention, and food in the main hall. Housing is being doled out, but once we take back Karhold, they will be able to chose between Karhold and the Last Hearth.” She tells him, and he nods, turning to some of his men and barking orders. “Would you like to meet Alys?” 

He goes to answer her, when they hear a scream.

“Papa!” Tormund moves forward and past Sigorn, and throws his arms open. Two small girls throw themselves into his arms, one about Arya’s age, and the other not much older than Rickon himself. They’re red haired, buck toothed, wide eyed like their father, and they look positively joyous. Brienne, next to her, shifts. Sansa finds herself smiling, and for a second she realizes what Kings and Queens are meant to do. 

They are meant to protect. They are meant to house, not to insight fear. But to love their people, to rule with kindness, but also justice. To rule with the wisdom to decide and decipher which is more important to each moment. And Sansa raises her jaw and turns to Jon, who looks over the moment of a father with his two daughters with guarded happiness. She turns back to Sigorn Thenn, and nods.

“Follow me.” They weave through Winterfell until they get to the castle itself. She leads them through doorways and entryways until they get to the main hall’s solar, where Alys sits, waiting quietly. 

“Alys,” Sansa starts, and the girl stands and turns to look at them.

“Your grace,” she acknowledges, nodding her head in a slight bow. Her long dark hair is left down, the front pieces braided back into a simple Northern hairstyle. She doesn’t look as gaunt as she did when she first arrived, but she’s still thin, slightly built. But her dark blue eyes are pretty and enchanting.

“This is Sigorn Thenn, your betrothed.” She introduces. And Alys steps forward, her jaw and chin raised in confidence. Sigorn Thenn steps forward with acceptance, letting his eyes roll over her figure before he nods. He takes her hand and presses his lips to them, but says nothing. So instead Alys smiles small.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Sigorn nods again, standing straight.

“You aswell.” He says smoothly. 

“Whenever you wish for the wedding to commence, we can have it hear or later, in Karstark hold.” Jon says roughly, watching them both carefully. Sigorn raises his brow in question for her, but she smiles.

“Whenever you wish, my lord.” He watches her carefully, before turning back to Jon and Sansa.

“Whenever we are able.” He says, and Sansa smiles.

“Is tomorrow too early? We plan on marching at the end of the week, a wedding would inspire morale, and also send a message to the North that not only are the Free Folk apart of it, but that you will be Lord over Karstark.” He nods, turning back to his betrothed, who nodded as well. 

“Wonderful, we’ll start the planning.” They leave them to speak and get to know each other before they meet with Davos, who's been corresponding openly between the Manderlys. He’s with Melisandre, and she asks Brienne to train with Podrick, and while she begrudgingly accepts, she scowls harshly at Melisandre. 

“The wedding will take place tomorrow night,” Sansa starts, moving to sit in the seat across from Davos. “I’ll be having the cooks prepare a simple spread, but it is important that we, the night of the wedding, we send news out to the Loyal houses that we plan to march at the end of the week.” Davos nods, and sits forward.

“Once we have Karhold, and once Tormund’s men go back to the Last Hearth, the question remains to as what happens with Dreadfort, as well as the other abandoned houses.” She nods, and turns back to Jon, in question.

“We’ve not decided who should have Dreadfort, now that Tormund chose Last Hearth,” she says to them. “Do you have any suggestions?” She asks, turning to them both. She didn’t trust Melisandre, but she brought her brother back. She was right about Alys, and while she wasn’t convinced that she was or had the power she said she did, she knew she’d be a fool to outright deny her presence.

“You could give one of the lesser houses Dreadfort. Or you could create one again, with Giantsbane and Thenn.” He says, and she nods.

“I think if I give another house to a Free Folk, we’d probably face more trouble than it’s worth, we’ve already proven that loyalty is rewarded.” She starts. “We should wait before we convene with the loyal houses, though. That way they all get a choice. Perhaps, even, break up the remaining regions amongst the living houses.” She says quietly. Davos nods.

“And that’ll be after we march on Karhold?” Melisandre asks, and Jon nods.

“And after Sigorn and Tormund name and place themselves as Lords within each region.” Jon agrees, and then there’s a pregnant and awkward pause. Sansa doesn’t know why, but both Davos and Melisandre watch her carefully. So instead of feeling uncomfortable, she stands.

“I’ll get started on wedding arrangements and Alys’s gown.” Jon nods, but she’s still being stared at, so she turns, and leaves briskly, looking for the kitchen staff and the maids.

 

Jon looks to the pair and frowns. Before he has a chance to speak though, Melisandre speaks first.

“When do you plan on taking the Iron Throne? Will you marry her first? Or create an alliance between South and the North?” And Jon feels as if the air has been punched from his chest. 

“What?” Her eyes narrow as she watches him.

“You are the Prince that was Promised, you must take the Iron Throne and unite the Kingdom.” And Jon feels like he walked into a conversation he never intended to have. So instead, he stands tall and shakes his head. 

“Sansa is the Queen of the North, and then Rickon will be. If it comes to Sansa becoming the Queen, or Daenerys, I don’t care, so long as my family is safe, so long as Sansa and Rickon are alive, safe, and happy. I don’t want the crown, I never have.” He tells her and Davos. “I will fight for Sansa, but I will never be a King.”

She glares. “You are the Prince that was promised.” She tells him again. He glares back.

“I will fight the Others til my last, dying breath if I have too. But I will not take the throne from Sansa. After everything, she deserves it.” He growls out, and Davos shakes his head.

“You don’t have to take it from her, you could share it.” And he feels something in his stomach uncomfortably. Instead of facing it though, he glares.

“This is the end of this discussion.” He turns to leave, but he stops at what Davos says.

“She will be expected to marry again. Even if she fights it, someone may require her to have a husband, whether it be someone forcing her hand, or to create an alliance. Wouldn’t you be better suited?” Jon feels the rage and confusion well in him.

“I’m her-” and then he stops. Because he’s not her brother: he’s a Targaryen. He’s seen his skin remain unburnt, he’s seen his birth, his rescue, and he’s spoken to Lord Reed. He’s a Targaryen, not her brother. He’s her cousin, and perfectly eligible to marry her.

“Safest option.” Davos tells him firmly. “Now you do not have to worry, the North will be licking their wounds and uniting, but once the wonder of unification wears off, she will face the fact that she is only a reagent. No matter how unfair that is.” And then he remembers what Sansa said to him.

“Until then, it is you and I, Jon.” She hadn’t meant to become a Queen. And he wonders then if Robb had meant to become a King. But he leaves the room, and walks out of the castle, confusion and guilt sitting in his gut. Not only because Sansa would be expected to marry again, but also because the thought of him spending the rest of his days with her wasn’t a horrible prospect.

 

Sansa sews Alys’s gown together, as she had for the last two nights. Jon thought her presumptuous, but she only smiled and said that she deserved something to wear should she marry. Rickon falls asleep halfway through his lessons, having run around Winterfell with Tormund’s youngest daughter, Eliya. She watches him carefully, before Jon pulls her from her thoughts.

“He doesn’t call us mother or father in front of anyone else.” He says to her, quietly. She frowns, and turns to him. He’s watching her like she’s a stranger. His eyes closed off, staring at her like she’s made of something he’s never seen before. He stares at her hair first, the red in it makes his eyes narrow, and then he looks to her face, studying each piece of it. 

“What...what do you mean?” He’s staring at her like he’s never stared at her before and she’s not sure how to feel about it.

He turns away from her abruptly.

“I mean, don’t worry so much about him. He’s a bit wilder than Robb was at this age, but it’s to be expected. He spend his life being raised differently from us. Guide him, don’t try to control him. He’ll just be resentful.” He tells her quietly, and she tries not to flinch. It hurts, but she takes a few moments to breath steadily, and nods. He’s free of his armor for the first time in a long time, but he’s still wearing black. Always black. She turns again to the embroidery of the dress, they’d both decided on the bronze disk and the red flames of R’hollor. Melisandre is to marry them, which had been a surprise she wasn’t expecting. Though, she shouldn’t be.

“Sigorn likes her.” Jon says quietly, and she nods. 

“Yes, and I think she’s happy that she doesn’t have to play the dutiful wife around him.” 

“Has she told you of her brother?” She nods.

“The Lannisters have him. Whether they’ll kill him is up in the air, but with what’s happening here…” It’s unlikely he’ll stay alive for much longer. Jon nods, understanding the unspoken words. She finishes the embroidered pieces, and sighs, stretching her fingers. Now, all that is left is fitting the dress onto her. She stands and places the dress on the table next to them. 

“Jon, what is it? You seem more melancholy than usual.” She says, taking the cup of wine and sipping it slowly. It’s watered down, as a wedding comes tomorrow and apparently the one thing that is universal between the people of Westeros and those from behind the wall is wine and mead. 

“Something...Davos and Melisandre said.” She hums, offering him her cup. He hesitates, before taking it. It’s sweeter than the kind he used to drink in Castle Black, and the difference nearly has him twist his face. She nods.

“They were in a strange mood. Or, stranger, in their case.” She looks down at him, and he looks up. For a second he wishes they could spend the rest of their days like this, easy and smooth. She watches him carefully, worried.

“They...want me to claim the Iron Throne.” She freezes. He wants to continue, but the words die in his mouth, they turn to ash. 

He’ll never ask that of her, he vows to himself. She’s been through enough, the last thing she needs is to be stuck with him for the rest of her life. After what she’s been through, after what that bastard did to her, he’ll never ask her of that. 

She pulls her chair next to his and sits with him, taking his hand. “Is it what you want? Or…” She stumbles over the words, unsure of what to say.

“The North is yours,” he tells her.

“The North is ours, Jon.” She snaps back at him, but it isn’t in anger. “I told you that, it is ours, if you want to be the King of the North, we will rule it together. If you want the South, I will fight with you. But we must wait, wait until the Lannisters and Tyrells tears themselves apart, the less men we lose the better. If you want the Iron Throne, I will fight with you.” She says to him, taking his hand and bringing it to her other hand, where she clasps his hand between both of hers. “Together, I promised you that. Just like you promised you’d come back. And I will keep my promise, just like you will keep yours.” She says, and he stares into her blue eyes and wonders how this turned out the way it did. 

He closes his eyes and nods. “Sansa, I just want you...you and Rickon to be safe. I don’t give two shits about being King, all I ever wanted…” Was a family that loved him, truly, without the guise of name or with the matter of name. He never wanted to be held back by his name. And now...Now he didn’t understand or know what the full realization of his name would mean.

“Then, together, we will rule the North. The Lannisters and the Tyrells will tear themselves apart. And if your aunt comes, we will make peace.” 

He watches her, and wonders again, as he feels like he does over and over, when things changed. He’d missed Sansa become a woman. He missed Sansa’s shift, and now? He’s missed the change from a Lady to a Queen.

Instead he nods, and when Sansa stands and kisses his forehead, he does his best to ignore the surge in his belly. 

“Now, can you help me get Rickon to bed?” She asks him, smiling kindly to him. He stands, laughing quietly. He moves to Rickon, slipping his arms under his bent knees and his back before lifting. 

“This boy could sleep through a fire,” she says, rolling her eyes. But there’s a knock at the door. She frowns, walking to the door and opening it. It’s Davos with Brienne, and she looks disgruntled and unsure.

“Your Grace, I apologize for this hour, but I have a letter here, and it’s urgent.” She looks back to Jon, who's still holding Rickon in his arms, and opens the door further, allowing both Brienne and Davos in the room. Davos stops at Jon, and looks back at Sansa. Then he turns and stares Jon down, but Jon scowls back.

“Jon, please, put Rickon in his bed and we’ll speak about this privately.” He nods, and slips into the adjourning room. Sansa watches him leave, before turning back to Davos, who has letter in hand. She sits in her seat, and prays silently that the news is good. When Jon returns, Davos opens the letter and begins to speak.

To Queen Sansa Stark and Lord Targaryen of Winterfell,  
I am Yara Greyjoy, you know who I am and I know who you are. I have written this to make a proposition, an alliance. Recently, my uncle murdered my father, and was named King of the Salt Throne. I’ve taken what is rightfully mine, nearly all of the Ironfleet and those loyal to me, and sail towards you. Together, I hope to create an alliance that would secure both the Iron Islands, but also rid the world of the likes of the Lannisters and Tyrells. I’ve been informed by my brother, that there have been whispers of the Others having returned. I will fight for you and with you on the battlefields in the North should you help me secure my home from my traitorous uncle. I know of my brother’s treachery, but I also know that you and he were playthings to Ramsay Bolton, and that he helped you escape him, nearly sacrificed himself for you. What he did is inexcusable, but the realm is at risk and I believe that with your armies and my fleets, we are best suited to stabilize the realm. My fleet will beat any of your enemies on water, and so long as we stabilize both the realm and the Iron Islands, I will be loyal to you. If you decide that you want our help, give us a coordinate and we will meet you there, ready to fight with you.  
Yara Greyjoy, The Rightful Queen to the Iron Isles

Sansa and Jon look to each other, and Sansa lets out a breath of air. “She’s quite...forward.” Brienne snorts, and Jon stares at Sansa. 

“I am assuming that you two will need time to discern this matter.” She looks at Davos and nods. Jon is stony, frozen in both rage and frustration. Brienne hesitates, but Sansa waves her hand and drinks from her wine, closing her eyes. 

When they leave, Sansa looks at Jon, and nods to him. “Go ahead, get angry, Jon. You deserve it.” He watches, her, and he suddenly feels ashamed of himself, as he shakes in anger and rage. 

“He saved you.” He says, convincing himself over and over again.

“And he betrayed Robb. And here serves us the question: do we, as rulers, have the wisdom to find the answer for this question? To forgive or to avenge?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, so I know in the book, Tormund had sons and one daughter, I decided to go with the show version, where he has two daughters. In the book, Yara sailed to join Stannis Baratheon, but since Stannis is dead, it seems that she will be sailing to Jon and Sansa instead, I decided to add their alliance here as well. Also, I have a question for all of you, if you were in Sansa and Jon's position, what would you do with Theon? Would you allow him to live or would you execute him? Or would you do something else? Like make him a Kingsguard, make him go to Castle Black?  
> Thank you for all of your comments, they really help. Some of you may have noticed that I've been rapid firing these chapters out, I've had a break from work and school. However, my mom is getting married soon so I may not be able to update this as quickly, but I'm hoping to aim for at least twice a week. Again, let me know if you see any errors, I had one last chapter, and was able to fix it early when a viewer caught it! Thank you!


	7. Chapter 7

The Blood of the Wolf  
Chapter Seven

She wonders what her father would do. She wonders what her mother would do. She knows what Cersei would do: at the Battle of Blackwater, she’d had the runaways killed and their heads on a spike. She had no mercy: neither did Robert Baratheon. Maybe that’s why they hated them like they did. Maybe that’s why there was so much unrest. 

She can’t sleep tonight, so she sits in the rocking chair in Rickon’s room, just watching him. She thinks of what Jon said earlier, and just sighs. Why does he call her mother? And Jon father? They’ve told him enough times, but he just...he just ignores it. 

How are they going to explain to him everything if he won’t even listen to them? Would he understand? Would he understand that even though he thinks that Jon is his father or brother, in reality he was his cousin? That everything he fought for was for them, and for them only. He didn’t have to come with her to Winterfell. He didn’t have to fight for her. He could have taken Winterfell with Stannis Baratheon. But he left it to her. Only when she asked him, did he come to fight for her.

But he knows partly, that Jon isn’t his father. Jon had told her that. He doesn’t call them mother or father to anyone other than them. She stands and brushes his hair from his face and smiles. He shifts, and she watches him for a moment longer before she stands and goes back to her room and closes the door. She walks across her room and grabs a thick robe, and slips on her boots.

She won’t sleep tonight. She knows she won’t. So she decides to take a walk. She slips down the hall silently, her feet sweeping down the hallways. She doesn’t exactly have a direction. But she just feels herself being pulled. So she keeps walking, until she’s outside of the castle and she slips into a small crevice in the castle. She strips herself of her clothes, and she lets the shift take her. She lets her limbs grow shorter, fur split over her skin, and her face grow longer. 

She runs, and wonders why she’s never done this before. The air through her fur and the pace she’s running at, it makes her feel free. She slips through the dungeons and then the caverns, before slipping out into the woods.

It feels natural, like this, free and she feels like she could run forever. She wonders if Arya is alive and if she’s a wolf. She prays for her, but the older she gets the more she wonders if it actually does anything other than give a false sense of security. If the Gods really even care.

She goes to the weirwood, and she remembers the times her father had brought her here. She remembers the praying, she remembers her father so dutifully believing in his Gods. 

She’s beginning to forget the lines in his face. The scar on his forehead, sometimes she forgets which direction it went and what part of his face it was on. Even her mother, she’s beginning to forget the way she smiled. She wonders if she’ll forget the way Arya looks, and the way Robb and Bran look. Although, she knows that’s already started. She just didn’t want to admit it. It was so much easier to pretend.

Sansa doesn’t stay much longer here, the wounds are still open, still throbbing and bleeding, albeit slower than before. She doesn’t know what to do with Theon. He saved her, he was the one piece that kept her from killing herself. She had planned to jump from that height before, but she would have frozen and died if it’d not been for him.

But what he did wasn’t excusable. He betrayed her family: he killed. The torture he endured, that was payment in her eyes. But it wouldn’t be in anyone else's eyes. She knows that, but then she thinks of the other families of the North, while they may not have turned on her brother, they certainly didn’t pick up arms after Robb died and stop the Boltons. They didn’t save her from Ramsay Bolton, and there had to have been whispers of what that monster did. 

But Theon saved her. And for once, he did it for her. He didn’t have some hidden agenda, he didn’t want her like others had. He did it because they were both the same. And he may not have been able to save himself, but he could save her.

She doesn’t know what to do.

But she slips back into Winterfell, back to the crevice where she dresses hastily, before slipping back into the castle. She nearly runs into Davos, who drops something as he stumbles out of her way.

“I’m sorry!” She gasps, dipping down to pick up what he’d dropped, it’s when she looks at it she realizes it’s a doe. Her eyes glance to him and she hands it to him quickly. “I did not see you, Davos, I apologize.”

He nods, but is quiet as he glances over the Doe. She’s heard what happened, and she takes a breath at the sorrow in the man’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Lord Davos.” He looks up to her, eyes guarded but nods.

“Thank you, your grace.” He walks past her, and she wishes, not for the first time in her life that the world they knew was different, that men were not drawn to power, that they were not overwhelmed with it like Joffrey and Cersei. 

She walks past the room that had belonged to Ramsay, and pauses in the hallway. The air seems to be stuck in her chest, and she wonders if she’ll ever reach a day where that doesn’t happen. If she can think of another man other than Jon or Rickon, touching her without hurting her. She doubts it. Or at least, it’ll be a long time before she does. She remembers how she was at Kings Landing, so young and so foolish. And then with Ramsay, so hellbent on getting revenge that she was blinded by his cruelty.

The wisdom to chose between the two, she’d told Jon that they needed to find. She wondered if she even had that ability within herself.

She didn’t know if she forgave Theon. She didn’t know if she still hated Theon. But what she wanted and what she needed to do for her Kingdom were two completely different things. 

She knew that everyone else who had stood for King in the bloody war of the five Kings, the one that wasn’t even over, just changed name and cause, would kill him. 

But Sansa did not want to be a cold Queen. All those Kings were dead. Stannis, Renly, Robb, Joffrey, Balon. All of them dead.

And yet she survived. 

She walks on, moving back to her room, where finally she feels fit to sleep. This time, she dreams of running, she dreams of being a wolf again. But when she stops by a lake to drink, the reflection is not of her own wolf. White eyes stare back into her, and all around her are hundreds of wolves.

She wakes with a start, and finds Rickon grinning over her.

“You slept late.” He says to her. Her eyes widen as she goes to stand, but she puts his hand up. “I mean for you, the rest of the castle is still asleep.” He climbs into her bed, sitting where she had just been laid out.

“Rickon, how long did you watch me?” She asks. He shrugs, scratching at his face.

“You looked peaceful. Then you got scared and woke up.” She smiles at him nervously, and reaches for his hand. 

“I should...I should apologize to you. I’ve been so worried that you’re safe that I’ve forgotten that there’s nothing wrong with you, just that you’re a little different than the rest of us.” She says quietly to him. “I shouldn’t be so worried, after everything you’ve gone through, I’m sure that you’ll be fine.” He smiles, and presses himself against her side. “May I ask you a question though?” He looks up into her and she feels like she’s staring into her own father for a moment, and she wonders why everyone says that Jon looks so much like father, when his twin from another generation sits before them all. “Why is it you call me mother and Jon father?”

He frowns for a moment, and she nearly wishes she hadn’t asked the question. “I like to pretend.” He says quietly, and Sansa feels as if her bloods turned to ice. “And you and brother make it so easy: dressing like father and mother did. I did think you were mother and father at first, but now it’s so easy to keep pretending.” She pulls him to her, and he lays across her lap, facing the dimming fire. “Tell me a story, Sansa.”

She runs her fingers through his curls and wonders why the Gods are so cruel. Wonders if she should tell him the story of Azor Ahai, but thinks that too cruel. Then she wonders if she should tell a story of the Nymeria, the only story that Arya had begged her mother to tell again and again until Sansa yelled at her and told her that they had heard that story for two weeks. She decides against that too, and then thinks of their family

“The night of your birth, I was seven. I’d been through Arya and Bran’s birth too, but they were little and didn’t understand. They dragged me to Jon and Robb’s room, where we all stayed the entire night. Robb rolled his eyes, but was secretly happy. Jon was so happy that he could be with us all.” She says quietly. “We could hear mother’s crying and yelling through Winterfell. But your birth lasted the least amount of time. I remember for Arya, she labored for a full day. With Bran, nearly two. But you, you lasted half a day. We heard her laugh when you were born, she was so happy to have you.” She kept running her hand through his curls, softer than they looked. Like Jon’s. “I remember father gathering us all up to visit you, he looked so happy and pleased. Mother would hardly let you out of her hands. You were, are, perfect.” 

He smiles, and it reaches his eyes easily. “The first time I held you I wanted to have a child like you, light haired, and beautiful. I asked mother if I could keep you. Father and mother laughed at that. Robb never stopped teasing me.” 

“And Jon?” She doesn’t go stiff, but smiles sad.

“He met you a day later, when Robb and I snuck him out of the nursery.” He frowns.

“Why?” 

“I think...I think Jon and I will have to tell you why together. If that’s all right.” He nods, and stays in her lap.

She never wants this moment to end.

 

It does though. Jon takes Rickon to start his fighting lessons, and Jeyne, Sansa, and Alys finish Alys’s dress. Jeyne works on her hair as Sansa works quickly to finish her dress. She pins and sews rhythmically as Jeyne does and redoes hairstyles, while Alys tells her that everyone she does is beautiful. Sansa smiles when she finishes the gown, the pale and ivory clothing having been taken from storage up in the castle where her mother said she’d hoped to make her one day. It feels bittersweet, Sansa laying her hands on this gown. It had been meant for her, and now she gives it to another. It isn’t anger that settles in her stomach. Or disappointment. 

It’s regret.

“You look beautiful, Alys.” She says smoothly, as Jeyne finally settles on a simple northern hairstyle at Alys’s request.

“He will not care what my hair looks like, Jeyne. Do not worry yourself,” she told her. Alys moves jerkily, somewhat awkward, but nods.

“Thank you, your grace.” Sansa smiles, and traces her fingers along her face.

“You’re nervous, Alys?” She nods breathing deep. Sansa smiles in understanding. 

She has her sit, and gives her water, unwilling to allow her drunkenness before her wedding. It’s important that she’s clear of mind. “Jon tells me he likes you.”

“He’s….different.” She agrees, and Sansa smiles. “I...I will not make him happy I think.” Jeyne frowns, but Sansa shakes her head.

“You can make him happy in your bedchambers.” Jeyne says quietly, and Sansa shakes her head.

“Marriage is a partnership, is it not? My father gave my mother a sept, and my mother raised us with knowledge of both sets of Gods. They both compromised, Alys. Just as he compromises by marrying you with the Red God. So all you have to do is compromise back. He already likes you, if he sees that you are willing to accept him and his people, it will make your marriage better.” She tells her, and Alys nods.

“Will...will you do something for me your grace?” She asks. 

Sansa smiles. “Of course.”

 

The marriage is quick, and fire surrounds them from every angle. Jon stands near her, Rickon in front of them both. But he leans against Sansa easily, and she places her hand on his shoulder, and slides past to rest her hand on his chest, where she counts the moments according to the beats of his heart. Alys looks beautiful and radiant surrounded by the fire. Sigorn Thenn looks uncomfortable, with so many people surrounding him. It’s a large wedding, with both Free Folk and Northerners surrounding them, as one.

It makes her smile and when she looks back to Jon, she can’t imagine seeing him so light as well. They watch as the couple kiss, and walk behind Melisandre who brings them to the main hall. 

The feast isn’t large, but the party is. The Free Folk sing loudly, and prance around the main hall with happiness. The Northerners slowly begin to dance with them, after Rickon runs off to dance with Tormund’s youngest daughter. Tormund, tries to get Brienne to dance, which makes Sansa laugh as Jons face goes near red when Tormund walks by, winking at him as he flamboyantly dances in hope for Brienne to follow. She remains stone faced, but her cheeks display the embarrassment. 

She notices next, Pod dancing with Vayon and Jeyne. She smiles as Vayon squeals and dances. When she looks to Alys, she nods, and slips from her husband's side. Sansa, herself, finds herself moving towards him. He watches her closely as he dismisses those around him. She smiles at him openly when he notices his wife is no longer with him.

“She asked me to tell you, Lord Thenn, that she was grateful that you were willing to bend to her beliefs.” She starts evenly. “And while your own personal customs, may not be able to be applied as...well here. She wanted to compromise. In an adapted version of your own customs.” His eyes narrowed, and Sansa turns to Alys, who stands quietly in the shadows. She turns back to him, and he nods in understanding.

“Thank you.” She smiles and dips her head in acknowledgement.

She walks back to her table as they both slip from the reception, Alys getting a running head start.

Someone notices, and she coughs loudly, and the music slows. She smiles at them all standing at the head table.

“The bride and groom have decided to forge their own bedding ceremony, to mold two different cultures together in harmony.” She says aloud. “I believe you all know, that I am not like Robb or my father, or even Jon. My rallying speeches are sorely lacking. But I want to thank each and everyone of you. There are generations upon generations of bad blood between us. There is pain that will never be truly healed, and yet here we all are, enjoying and living together in harmony. Together. Not as the Free Folk or the Northerners, but together. When Jon told me of the Others that face us, and I told him of the civil war that tore this country apart, I wondered how we would do it. I wondered how we could work together to stabilize both the realm and protect it from what lays outside of the wall. But you have all taught me that together is the only way we will succeed. That together, our paths are fortuitous. There is darkness ahead, and united we stand. Ready to fight and withstand. As a young girl I heard stories of men and women like you, strong and courageous. My time in King's Landing and then with the Boltons made me think that perhaps that time had ended. But here you all stand, proving to me once again, that when good men and women stand to fight, those they face shake in terror. And from the threats we have received, and the letters looking for allies, I can see that the men and women here, who fight for the North are truly good.” 

She can hear the hollering and shouting, and she smiles and sits once again as the music starts up again, louder and rowdier than before.

She turns to Jon, who watches her with fondness in his eyes.

“I thought you said that your rallying speeches were lacking.” His lips twitch into a half smile and she laughs at him.

“Well, I did learn from the best. Robb, father, and now you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, if you find anything that needs to be fixed, please let me know. Thank you!


	8. Chapter 8

The Blood of the Wolf  
Chapter 8

Sansa often found herself wondering lately how her father would plan the sieges she and Jon plan with Davos, Brienne, Tormund, Sigorn, and now Alys, as she sits with her husband, watching quietly, soaking every piece of information up piece by piece. 

“The river leading into Karhold is large enough to fit several of the Greyjoy fleets, but not all.” Alys tells them, and Davos nods. 

“We’ve coordinated with her, and she says she should arrive before we do, but that she’ll stay behind until we send someone to her fleet. From there, they will follow whatever instructions given.” Davos says calmly, his eyes watching keenly over Sansa’s. 

“Brienne should go. She’s the only one that’s met with Theon, he’ll know who she is.” Sansa tells them, and while Brienne doesn’t exactly look happy, she nods in agreeance. “From my understanding, they will flank the castle and also join the siege? If so, we should make sure to send all available maesters and healers.” 

“Will we be holding them back from the battle?” Sigorn asks, his voice rough as he watches the room from a corner. His face isn’t painted today, though the tan marks where his paint lays makes it seem so. Alys sits in a chair in front of him, and he keeps his hand on her shoulder fingers idly running through her long hair.

“Yes,” Jon says. “I know it isn’t your way, but Karhold will not be an easy take, even if we do have the Greyjoys. Cregan is not like Ramsay, he’s still kept on a leash by his father and he has years of battle knowledge behind him. But so long as Alys remains married to Sigorn Thenn, he will never be the Lord of Karhold.” He says gravely.

“But he’s like any man.” Sigorn says coldly. “When blood and anger is up--he’ll chose to fight over sitting idly like a coward.” He says, and Sansa thinks that she’s happy he’s on their side. He can be positively intimidating.

But she herself had killed a man, several. If she remembers her first shift right. A piece of her tells her that she should not be so afraid of him. She turns to look at Davos, who seems to be taking this piece of advice with a grain of salt: he had served Stannis Baratheon. He was not a man moved by emotion. But he was not like any man. 

“Aye, Thenn’s right. Flounce the fact he’s married the woman he wanted, he’ll come running.” Tormund says, and Brienne scowls, though Sansa isn’t quite sure why. Perhaps it’s because Tormund’s taken a liking to following her around as she teaches his oldest daughter, Nera. Turns out all of Tormund’s blood seem to be smitten with her, though Brienne does take better to his daughters than him. Although, if Sansa were honest, the way Brienne flushes and smiles when he dotes on his daughters is any indication of her true feelings, she’d say that there’s more to her feelings than she lets on. 

“We cannot rely on just that,” Sansa says evenly, to the appreciation of both Brienne and Davos. “We need something stronger to pull him from Karhold.” 

“Trial by combat,” Davos says and Alys goes stiff and the room goes silent. Sansa looks to Jon, and Jon looks as if he’s chewed on a lemon raw. 

“It’ll save men and time.” Sigorn says, unworried. Alys looks up jerkily, and he pets her hair soft. “I’m not like your Northern Lords, Wildlings fight to survive. Not when we please.” His voice is softer than before, just for her and for a second Sansa feels like she’s interrupting.”

“If he wins, what’s the use for the ships?” Tormund asks, and Sansa frowns.

“If he wins, he’ll have nearly four thousand men who distrust the Starks and who are about to hand their castle over to a foreign lord and align themselves with a Queen who has protected Free Folk and convened behind their back to marry their heir to one. Northern men are fickle once they feel they’ve been wronged.” Sansa says and Jon frowns to her.

“You’re the Queen of the North.” He says, his voice daring anyone to say otherwise.

“Yes, and they thought they could marry Alys off in a trade, rape and beat Jeyne with no repercussion. Before Alys married Lord Thenn, she would have been Cregan’s third wife, the two previous wives dead under suspicious circumstances. They have no loyalty to a Queen, and they’ll always think they’re above any woman, regardless of her birth.” Sansa says harshly, but it’s not to Jon in particular. But Sansa is a woman: she knows that they will see her as less. “We need a sure, crushing win. One that will prove that while we reward loyalty, we have no sympathy to traitors like them. With all do respect, Alys, your father killed two children. Cregan has killed two wives. If we want to gain control of the North, we need to do so and actually implement the laws that we have.” 

“She’s right, Lord Targaryen.” Brienne says, hand clutching her sword. “The Karstarks have already said they will never bow to a Queen with no King, less of all a Stark.”

Davos nods. “You may know that our Queen is not less because of the status of her birth, but the Karstarks have already proved that they care little for the law unless it serves them.” He adds, frowning tightly. 

“Then I will fight him. If he thinks that he can disobey the Laws and think that his acts are unpunishable, then he will face justice at my hand in your place.” He says.

Alys shakes her head, hand clutching Sigorn’s tightly. “It needs to be Sigorn.” She says quietly. “Both to prove that he is the true lord of Karhold in my brother's absence, as well as to prove that the Free Folk fight in Queen Sansa’s honor.” Her voice is strong, but her hand clutching Sigorn’s tells otherwise. But she knows, Gods old and new does she know how that feels. How it feels to watch the man you care for fight in your honor, with only your words and wit to fight for yourself. 

Sansa looks to Jon, who nods gravely, but somewhat upset. She’d have to talk to him after, but she turns to Alys, who gives her a shaky smile. 

“Lord Thenn, you have a choice of any weapon or weapons in our armory, as well as any armor that fits.” She tells him smoothly.

He nods. “Thank you.” He turns down to his wife, and she looks at him, and Sansa feels like she’s intruding again. Instead, she turns to Davos.

“A battle between Lord Thenn and Cregan would make things easier, however we must be ready for a battle. They’ve already proven that they’ll do whatever they think is necessary to keep power, if they lose, they may revolt anyways.” 

He nods, clasping his hands together. “Aye, but the men would be split, we’d weed out those that would never be loyal in the first place. The question is will you be there as well, Your Grace.” She feels Jon stiffen beside her, and Brienne step forward.

“I must.” She says, hard and unmoving. He nods, because he knows as well that she does not have a King. So she must place herself as both a King and a Queen: act as both.

“Rickon-” Jon starts.

“Will be watched by Jeyne and Alys, should Alys as well chose to stay. I need to be there. I am Sansa Stark, I am the one who asked you all for this, if I am not there, who are they fighting for other than a name?” She tells him. “Rickon is too young, too untrained. Once we secure the North and he’s been trained, then perhaps he can go in my stead. But he’s only ten, Jon.”

He doesn’t look happy, but it’s Alys who speaks up.

“The Queen is a wolf, Lord Targaryen. It’s in her blood, to protect her family.” She says quietly, and then Sansa remembers the stories their father told them as children. The talk of the Wolves who saved men and their armies.

But she was alone.

“We should reconvene tomorrow, to finish the details before we move in three days.” Davos says, and Sansa nods in agreement. She looks to Jon, who says with his eyes that the discussion is nowhere close to being over, and she looks to Brienne with a smile. 

“Will you be training with Pod?” 

“I will your Grace, as well as the children.” She hears Tormund shift, and feels a smile play across her face.

“Then may I speak with you privately?” She frowns but nods. Sansa bows her head to her counsel and smiles. “Thank you, all.” They nod, and turn into their own conversation, Davos drawing Jon into one as Sansa turns to Brienne, and she nods and leads her to the ledge her mother and father often stood watching her brothers. 

She watches the small girls and Rickon as Pod shows them easier steps, and watches as Jeyne claps with her small babe on her hip, the small boy leaning his head on her shoulder. She likes to imagine Arya here, showing them as well. She thinks she would make Arya a Knight or maybe the Master of Arms. She vowed she’d never make her marry if she ever came back. Sansa’s been betrothed four times, and only once to a man that she could find herself marrying. Married twice, one to a letcher who may have been a good husband and was a good friend, and one that was a monster. She’d never force Arya into what she had been pushed into. She wonders, if things would have been different had she been like Arya. If she had told the truth that day. 

“Your Grace?” She asks and Sansa looks at her.

“I’m sorry, Lady Brienne, I was lost in thought.” She tries to smile, but the heaviness of her thoughts bring her down. “I’ve made many mistakes, Lady Brienne. I was a foolish little girl. I did what people expected of me, and somehow it was never right. I’ve come to ask you something, once again.” Sansa leans up against the wooden rail and turns to her.

“Of course, your Grace.” She smiles and bows her head to Brienne before looking out to Podrick.

“I will ask you to leave Pod here, with Ser Davos, to protect both my brother and those under my immediate protection.” Jeyne, she thinks to herself. Who is already so fond of him. 

“Of course, your Grace. I thought you might ask that.” She nods.

“But I would also ask that you bring one person with you, of your choice. Outside of Ser Davos, Jon, and Lord Thenn. I do not want you alone, Lady Brienne. I know that you are more than capable to watch over yourself, but I would prefer that you not go alone.” Brienne stiffens, and her eyes narrow a bit.

“You want me to take Tormund?” Sansa gives a small smile.

“The thought had crossed my mind.” She says. “Thought not for reasons that you may think. Tormund respects power, rather than parts. He’s already proven to value you as a member of our council, and lets you handle your own problems. He’s strong, capable, and his way of life may seem similar to the Greyjoy and Iron Island fleets. It would be easier than sending some of our own men, who would probably openly oppose them. And Theon.” Her eyes narrow sharply at his name.

“Have you chosen what to do with him?” Sansa nods, before turning to face her brother, who laughs with the youngest of Tormund’s daughters, running as she throws the wooden sword at him and Pod looks overwhelmed as he struggles to calm them down. Rickon listens to Jeyne, who soothes him easily, and makes faces at the young babe in Jeyne’s arms.

“Once this is over, when we’ve secured the Kingdom, he’ll be banished from the North.” 

“Not many will be happy with that decision, the North Remembers, as you’ve said before, your Grace.” Sansa nods slowly.

“And I remember how the alliance fell apart, rather than carrying itself in Robb’s place. I remember how I was left to rot in King's Landing. And I remember how I was left to be raped every night in Ramsay’s room, even though the North new of my arrival.” Sansa says smoothly. “Does one crime outweigh the other? If I am to forgive the Manderly’s, why can I not allow Theon to live? He saved me. Knowing what Ramsay would do if he found us both. And yet he saved me. The scars that Ramsay left are enough for him.” She asks her openly, and Brienne moves to stand with her.

“Men chose to see what they want,” Brienne starts. “Your word is final. If you were a King, it would be final and you would not have to defend it. But you are not a man. And this is not a fair world.” Sansa smiles suddenly.

“Ironic, since it has been women, who have fed this rebellion.” And then she thinks of Lyanna Mormont, Wylla and Wynafryd Manderly, and Alys Thenn, now. And Yara Greyjoy. And then she thinks of her own words to Jon, and she turns to Brienne. “When do you think they’ll realize it?” 

Brienne rolls her eyes. “Men will believe what they want, and if they want to think that they are the cause for this they will. But it will be you and what you say that goes down in history.” She smiles, looking down at her brother again, he looks happy and free as Pod spars with him. 

“I used to think those songs were beautiful. It made me want to be a Queen, and when King Robert asked my father to allow a marriage between Joffrey and I, I was so happy. It was all I ever wanted.” 

“And now, Your Grace?” She asks, and Sansa thinks for a second before answering.

“And now, I see that my foolish dreams clouded my judgement. Had I known the danger of what lay before me, I would have never left Winterfell. But I doubt it would have made a difference. There still would have been war. My father would always be the honorable man, in a snakepit of lions.” She hears a subtle cough from behind her, and she looks up and turns to see Jon, hair tied back as it always is now. He looks questioning, and she smiles to him. 

“Would you prefer me to take Tormund? Your Grace?” Brienne asks finally.

She tilts her head to Brienne. “I will trust your judgement, Lady Brienne. But I hope that you do not underestimate Tormund.” Brienne nods in agreeance and bids her farewell. 

Sansa moves to Jon, and links her hand with him quietly, bringing him to the ledge that she stood at with Brienne. “You know why I need to go, Jon, don’t you?” She asks him quietly, watching as Brienne joins the group and starts training with them all.

“You said together, Sansa.” He says back to her, and she ignores the uneasy feeling settling in her stomach. He takes her hand and she looks back at him, staring him in the eyes.

“And it’s been you, Jon, who has been so keen on me being Queen while you lead the men, yet not as a King.”

He turns to her, both surprised and confused. “Sansa...the last time a Targaryen came to the North, a war followed.” She turns to him, an eyebrow raised.

“We are already at war, Jon. And you forget, that you are also of Stark blood.” She stares at him “You should send a letter to Daenerys. From what I’ve heard, Varys and Tyrion are with her. She may listen to reason if they are with her. Both men are good, regardless of that face you’re making at me. She’s going to come, and we can find peace with her.” 

He stares at her evenly, unsure and unknowing how to react. “I don’t want to sit on the Iron Throne.” 

“And I’m sure Daenerys doesn’t want you to either. So tell her that. Tell her that you want to stay in the North with me and Rickon. But she’s coming Jon, and she will tear down anyone that gets in her way. Tell her that you want to stay in the North, out of her way. And tell her that the Others are coming, and you’ve seen them with your own eyes.”

“And you? You’re the Queen of the North, she will want all of Westeros.” He tells her, stepping forward and taking both of her arms. She can see the worry and fear in his eyes, and her stomach twists with a feeling she hasn’t felt in a long time. She looks over the darkness of his hair, strong brows, and strong jaw. She swallows.

“We’ll face that when it comes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, let me know if there are any errors!  
> Thank you :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...fair warning, I re-wrote this chapter like three times. I'm not really happy with it, but I said that I would put out a chapter...and here it is. I don't know, I just...don't feel like I hit the mark on the big reunion? But here it is anyways. I plan on going more indepth about the reunion and how it feels for each of them, and I might do a Jon POV, but I'm not sure. Would you guys be into that? Let me know, thanks!

The Blood Of the Wolf  
Chapter Nine

Sansa watches the fire this night as Jon teaches Rickon, it’s so peaceful she lets her eyes slip closed, and she finds herself being pulled, closer and closer to the wolf she’d been inside before. But she stops, unsure and wonders if she can now. Suppers not for a bit later, but sometimes she gets lost in this mind. It’s a new development, one she’s kept from Jon and Rickon, but she needs to be sure. She often wonders to herself if she could tell Jon, the Free Folk took Warging as a gift. She even remembers the stories old nan told, but she holds it close to her chest. It’s hers, and hers until she knows that her instincts are right. It’s hers until she can have the courage to tell him that not only is she unlike him, she’s even more unlike him or her siblings than she’ll ever be able to be able to described. She looks over Jon and Rickon quietly, and places the cloak she’s readying for Brienne on her lap, and closes her eyes.

For the last few nights they’ve been travelling, but Sansa hasn’t been able to stay in her mind long. She’s always pushed out, softly, but someone else is joining in her mind as well. And the wolves that she leads are calm, following her willingly and absolutely, but she needs to know why and how. She feels herself searching, reaching out and searching for a conscious she’s used too. She reaches and finds it, wrapping herself around it as she melds slowly and gently into it’s mind. It allows her to do so easily, and her mind settles easily.

The wolf is running, and she can feel the hundreds of wolves around her. It’s unnerving, in a sense, to have such senses. She can actually taste the wolves around her. She feels heavy, heavier than ever before and she wonders why. 

But she keeps running as the wolf had intending, and took in her surroundings. She’s surrounded by trees, and it strikes her as familiar for a moment. And then she hears the grunt of a person, rather than a wolf. And then it strikes Sansa, why this forest is so familiar. 

The Wolfswood. And then she smells something, fresh blood and hears a painful gasp.

She pulls out of the mind immediately and stands, turning to Jon on shaky legs. He stands, and Rickon looks confused as Jon nearly leaps to keep her from falling.

“Jon, come.” She says, and Rickon follows them too, but she places him behind her.

“Sansa, what is it?” He asks, eyes narrowed.

“They’re coming,” she says, and she feels Ghost approach, though not at her call. He feels them too, she thinks to herself. Jon grabs her, and she turns to him, their bodies colliding. He holds her close to him, and he looks surprised at her eyes. 

She pulls at him, but there’s a heat in her belly she hasn’t felt before. But not now, she thinks to herself. She can’t now. She ignores it, and pulls him with her. They hear shouting, screaming, and when she gets out of the castle, she hollers out to not attack. Jon’s hand is on his sword, but Sansa is running the second he lets go of her hand. She weaves through Winterfell and to the gates, open with wolves spilling into it. Archers were ready, surprised, and she yelled once again to stop.

The wolves are here, hundreds of them, some huge like Ghost, others small like a hound. They’re tumbling through the entrance, dirty and tired, some collapsing, others sitting and panting. They’re colored differently, some white, some black, but most brown splattered with white, blonde, red, and black. She sees them all, and while they look unsure, they are not afraid. They do not harm anyone, and they watch and wait for her. Tormund is here, looking torn halfway between confusion and delight, as a babe wolf slips past it’s mother and lunges for him, biting a loose fur, and pulling. His youngest daughter, wrapped up in his arms, giggles, pulling the fur from her father and twirls it in front of the little wolf pup.

Jon slips behind her, and she turns to him, smiling.

And then she watches the look on his face and turns around again.

Because the wolf she’d warged into is here, here with a girl of ten and three. Her hair is dark, her brows strong. And she’s hard looking. She’s got a scar across her cheek, fresh and covered in dried blood. Her eyes are brown, the same brown she remembers from what feels like a lifetime ago. She’s covered in dirt, and Sansa feels tears falling as she runs to her. She nearly falls, but catches herself. Jon is stiff behind her, awe in her eyes and Rickon is struggling to recount her name.

“Arya!” She yells, and she feels as if her chest has lost all of it’s air, because she can barely breath as she runs to her sister. Arya looks like she relaxes, and then Jon moves quickly behind her.

Arya leaps off of the wolf, and lunges for Sansa, and they fall to the ground, crying, laughing, and Sansa swears she’ll never let her go. Jon is there in a second, wrapping his arms around them both, and Sansa is kissing Arya’s head and hair. Sansa is clutching at both of them, and she doesn’t know if she’s ever felt like this before, so light, so free.

Rickon moves closer, and Arya laughs, grabbing at his tunic and yanking him to them. They pull away, and for a second Sansa can’t believe that her sister is alive. But Arya pulls away from them and turns to the Wolf, and Sansa nearly does a double take when she realizes that there’s a boy there, well, a man, really. He’s got dark hair and an unclean and somewhat uneven beard. His eyes are bright blue, and his skin is tanned and he’s shivering.

“This is Gendry, Gendry Waters,” and suddenly his eyes widen and he glares past them. Arya looks confused, but when Sansa looks back and looks to Melisandre and Davos, Melisandre avoids eye contact and Davos moves forward. 

“Gendry,” he says evenly, surprised though.

“Ser Davos,” he says, but his eyes don’t move from Melisandre.

“She has no power here, not without Queen Sansa or Lord Targaryen’s approval.” Sansa moves forward to hold her sister, clutching her tightly, and Jon moves forward. Arya’s nose wrinkles for a second, watching Davos before she looks at Jon with a softened gaze.

“He helped me get here,” Arya says. “He stays. He’s a good blacksmith, not much of a fighter though.” Her voice is older than she remembers, more forceful, and Sansa smiles and nods. Gendry looks like he wants to roll his eyes, but straightens at Sansa and drops to one knee.

“Your Grace,” he stumbles out, and Sansa wants to laugh, but she doesn’t. Instead she steps forward.

“Please stand, Gendry Waters. Thank you, for helping my sister. We’ll get you a room, food, and new clothes. It’s just about supper time, Rickon, bring Arya and Gendry to my room, and ask a maid, nicely, Rickon, to bring up two extra plates.” She instructed, and he rolled his eyes at her, but took Arya’s hand and swung an awkward arm out to motion to Gendry to follow them both. He does so, awkwardly and bowing his head to both Sansa and Jon.

“What are we doing with all of these wolves, your Grace?” A soldier asks, and Sansa frowns for a moment before turning to Nymeria, smiling as she approaches and licks her open palm. 

“Allow them into the kennels and the empty caverns, we’ll be safe from them.” Ghost appears silently, slipping between Jon and Sansa to lunge for Nymeria, licking and pawing at her. 

“Your Grace...these are wolves.” The soldier says, and then looks like he wants to slap himself when Davos and Jon turn and raise an eyebrow at his response. 

“They’ll march with us to Karhold. And those that don’t will stay here and protect Winterfell. They aren’t our enemies, ser.” She says smoothly. “My father once allowed us six direwolves to keep as pets and partners. The wolves follow Nymeria, so long as none of us threaten them, then they will protect us.”

Nymeria and Ghost lead them away, into the stables and pens and then into the caverns with the few that are left. 

“We won’t be able to feed them, your grace.” The kennel master tells them, and she nods.

“Aye, but soon we’ll be travelling. They’ll hunt on our way there.” Jon says somewhat rushed. He wants to see Arya, they both do. The kennel keeper nods, moving on and the gate closes for the night, locking the people of Winterfell in, and keeping others out.

Most of the damage done by the fire and siege have been cleared up, thick stones replacing the charred remains. Sansa hesitates, looking around.

Arya will protect this place. She knows this, and while she already panics at the thought of leaving her, she knows that this place will be safe. Arya will protect it. Arya will protect their home, their legacy, and their inheritance.

She looks to Jon, who stares into the window of her room, where Arya watches down. 

“Go, I will settle this.” She says. He looks back at her, and she smiles, nodding. 

He hesitates, but turns and leaves and Sansa feels her chest seize. 

She’s conflicted, she knows. Jon won’t betray her, no that’s not what bothers her. But now? Now she doesn’t know where she fits. Now Arya, his sister is back. Sansa isn’t his sister, things have shifted against between them, Sansa and Jon. She was always the one that didn’t belong. Even when she was little, her brothers and sister were tied to her by duty. Not by true allegiance. 

She’s being stupid, she knows. But she can’t help the insecurity that settles in her belly.

 

She’s laughing when Sansa arrives back into her own room, laughing and joyful. The boy next to her, Gendry, watches her like she hung the moon. Arya listens to Jon, and tells him animatedly about Braavos, but Sansa can feel something, she can feel something within her.

She tells them that she sold fish, and that after a few months Gendry arrived, and they lived together, surviving together until she heard woke up one day in Nymeria’s head. She was around the Freys, and she began hunting them, slowly, within Nymeria, while they traveled back to Westeros. She thought that they could travel to Jon, first. And then by the time they had arrived near the Riverlands they heard that Uncle Edmure had been released and that Jon Targaryen and Sansa Stark were retaking Winterfell. The South was in shambles, and so no army would rise to stop them.

It doesn’t surprise Sansa that Arya has killed, not really. But it surprises Jon. But Jon doesn’t know, not truly, what it’s like to be stuck as a woman in a mans world. He may not treat women like other men, but when you’re faced with either surviving or death, sometimes honor and what’s right gets muddled. Jon was better than them, it seemed. Or at least, he was better than Sansa. She still had others fight for her.

“But it’s a load of rubbish.” She says. “Smart thinking to name yourself as a Targaryen though, but when will you drop it?” She asks, speaking with food in her mouth as she had when she was little. 

Sansa looks at Jon, who looks suddenly like his entire world has shattered.

“Arya…” Sansa says, but it’s Jon who has the strength to finish it.

“I am the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. It isn’t an act.” He says, voice an octave lower and he watches under his dark lashes to see her reaction. 

She looks like she’s been punched, and Rickon frowns pausing from stuffing his face.

“But...you’re still Jon.” He says. “What does it matter if you’ve got a different father and mother? You’re Jon.” 

The room goes silent, and Arya stares at Jon hard, before nodding.

“You’re still Jon.”


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, was this chapter so much easier to write. Sorry that I mentioned to a few of you it'd probably be out tomorrow or the day after, but this one came so much easier than the last chapter. As always, if you see any errors, let me know!  
> -Im_gonna_show_you

The Blood of the Wolf  
Chapter Ten

Arya wasn’t happy that Jon and Sansa were leaving by midday the next day. She demanded to go with them, and Sansa, had given up arguing with her, and Jon had taken over for Sansa. It seems that little had changed between Sansa and Arya, Sansa thinks to herself as she sits, her face red with arguing.

“You need to stay here, you need to protect Winterfell.” He says again, and Arya is angry, furious.

“No! Sansa can’t even fight, she shouldn’t be going! Robb was the King, not Sansa! All Sansa is, is a Lady! She’ll never be a Queen!” It hurts more than it probably should, because Arya is right in a way. Sansa shouldn’t be here, Robb should be. She’s just a pretender, something she learned to be in Kings Landing and with Petyr. 

“She’s the Queen, Arya.” He snaps suddenly. “In order to secure Karhold under the Thenns, she needs to be there. If there is a battle, she will change and run.” Arya looks confused, but Jon continues. “Robb is dead, do you think he’d want us divided as we are? Do you think your father would want us divided? Or your mother? We face extinction, not only as Starks but as people. The dead are coming and we need to be united. And while we defeated the Boltons and Umbers, defeating the Karstarks is the last piece of proof that we need that will secure the North, if we defeat them then the North will unite once again under the Starks and then we will march on the Frays, and re-secure the Riverlands for your uncle. If Sansa and I die, you are the next in line. Rickon is not ready. You will stay here.” His hands are fisted, and Arya looks surprised. 

“Arya, can you and I speak alone?” Sansa asks, quietly. Jon looks at her, and she levels an uneasy smile at him. Arya looks like she’ll deny her that, but Sansa turns. “Please, Arya. I will not order you anything, I just want to talk.” She nods angrily, and she stands. 

She leads Arya to her old room, one that Myranda had taken place in. Sansa had burnt everything, and returned it all to what it had been before. She’d even placed things that she might have liked, if she’d gotten old enough.

Arya looks confused, as she walks around. “It’s almost the same.” She says quietly.

“I tried to make it as close to as what I could remember. I burned everything else.” She says quietly. “I...I’m sorry.” Arya frowns, turning to her. “I often wonder what would have happened if I’d been more like you, or maybe like mother. Instead of a little girl pretending to be.” She sits on her bed and looks at her hands. “I...I thought that if I vied for their attention, that I could be a good Queen. That I would be safe, that I would live like in one of those songs. Even after that, when they beat me and they threatened me, when they gleefully told me that they’d cut mothers throat and sewn Greywind to Robbs neck, I thought I could survive.” She whispers. She looks to Arya, who looks torn between the already crying Sansa and running, but Sansa continues on.

“I dreamt of you everyday. I blamed you, because I couldn’t face what the world really is: shit. I was and still am a stupid little girl, sometimes. I’m trying, Arya, and I need your help. I’m not strong, like you or Jon are. I’ve only just accepted that I’m a Stark, and I’m so stupid, I know it. All this time I liked being a Lady, but I never understood what it meant to be a Stark. Not until...not until Ramsay. Not until the time I was a prisoner in my own home. Not until…it was all I had left of me.”

Arya is quiet, but she moves to sit next to her sister. She’s strong, even now, Sansa thinks to herself. Her back is straight, her body strong, sinewy muscles and longer than she remembers.

“Tell me.” Arya says, and Sansa lets out a shaky breath, but she tells her. She tells her of Kings Landing, she tells her of Petyr Baelish, she tells her of Ramsay and everything that he did to her. Then she tells her of Theon, and Arya looks torn between livid and frustration. Then she tells her everything since, every piece since. Her murder of Petyr, her changing, her killing those men. The alliances, the rescue of Uncle Edmure and Maege Mormont. Thens he tells her of Yara and Theon. 

“He deserves-”

“He’s gotten what he deserves. Some things are worse than death, Arya. And Ramsay, is worse than death. Once the war is over, if he has not already dead, he will never be allowed in the North. They’ve broken off from the Iron Throne, and once we recapture the North, Riverlands, we will recapture the Iron Throne. And then we ready for the Long Winter.”

She nods, she’s not happy, but she nods. 

“Things have changed between you and Jon. You look at each other different, and not just different because Robb’s not around. It’s like...your relationship is different.” Sansa nods, because she’s done lying to Arya.

“I...I don’t know why. Maybe it was when we saw each other, or when he agreed to fight in my name. Or when he told me and only me that he hadn’t been in darkness when he died. But...but I don’t know Arya, but...but things have changed.” 

She nods, but reaches over and takes her hand, it seems that she’ll take that for an answer for now, because she moves on rather than forcing Sansa to reveal how she truly feels, though Sansa isn’t quite sure she’s ready to admit that one to her.

“I’ll do it, I’ll stay, but I don’t want to be a lady.” Sansa laughs through her tears.

“No, no you’re not a Lady, Arya. And I’ve been through four engagements and two weddings, I’ll never make you marry someone. Ever. I swear to all of the Gods.” She nods, and then laughs. Leaning against Sansa openly.

“What do you think mother would think of that? That I’ll never marry?” Sansa shrugs.

“I think, if she took in what we’ve gone through, she’d wish more for us to be happy than wed.” Sansa says, because while she’s not quite sure, she prays to herself that it’s true. That her mother would be happier that her daughters are together, rather than marrying them off. 

Sansa and Arya sleep together, the first night together, with Rickon between them and Jon watching over them, until Sansa slips out of bed and draws him with them, and he lays on his back like he used to when she’d sleep with him. 

And Sansa feels better, the fear and insecurity quells. She knows it’ll be there until Sansa and Jon finally decide what they are to each other. For now, it’s hushed, quiet and sunk beneath her armor. Now, Jon watches over them with them, instead of from afar. And when Rickon and Arya hog the bed, Sansa slots herself against Jon, her back sliding against his strong, hard and warm form, and she sleeps without nightmares. Without dreams. And the silence is wonderful.

 

Waking was a somber affair, for Jon and Sansa, at least. Arya and Rickon were practically bouncing off the walls. Brienne met with Sansa, Tormund trailing behind her, grinning ear-to-ear as he talked to Jon. Brienne, when she looks at Arya though, bows her head.

“Princess Arya, I am pleased to know that you have returned home, and I wish that I could have been of service to you as well.” It’s Arya that rolls her eyes.

“I turned you down, but I’m glad that you’re protecting Sansa. Do give Theon shit for me, though.” She orders, and Brienne looks startled for a moment, before nodding.

“Of course, Princess Arya.” 

“Lord Giantsbane,” Sansa starts smoothly. “May I have a word?” He grins, nodding as she and he walk away towards the stables. She turns to face him and then looks to Brienne. “I...wish to speak to you of Lady Brienne.” His eyes narrow for a second, but Sansa hurries her statement. “I am not here to discourage your...courtship of her, at all, my lord. But...may I give you a piece of advice?” He looks stiff for a moment.

“Aye, you may. Could use any advice that I can get.” She smiles, nodding before looking past him for a moment.

“Lady Brienne lives by the restraints of a Southron image of a woman, and within those restraints, she is unladylike and hideous. But you and I know those things to be...inapplicable when it comes to Lady Brienne, or Northern customs as a whole. But this is how she sees herself. Your comments on her beauty will work against your favor. Try instead, to appreciate more openly her ability to fight, and her honor. Become her friend first, then move on. Your...culture clashes with what she and even I, have been raised to expect. It will take her time to learn the importance and true meaning of your culture. However, she would not accept your help if she thought you would counteract your mission. But do not push her, for her entire life she has searched for the freedom to choose.” His frown turns into a smile, as he nods and turns to look at Brienne.

“Your southron men seems to have shitty codes of honor.” He says bluntly.

“Yes, they can.” She says evenly, and smiles. “But I trust that you will work with her.” 

“Aye, she’s the boss.” He says, and winks at Brienne, who rolls her eyes openly. “Yer sister is takin over trainin my daughters, she’s a fierce one.” Sansa smiles.

“She always has been.” And she always will be.

 

Jon watches Arya with a sort of fond reluctance as she dances around teaching Rickon and the girls a modified version of a Dancing fighting style: she’s still got needle, and it’s strange to watch her as she fights. She’s still as fierce as ever, still as strong, still as determined, but she’s darker. She’s not just the little girl he remembers, she’s darker, more vicious, and colder in some aspects. 

But he watches her as she dances with Rickon, watches her as she dodges and flips. But when she breaks near their departure, she pulls him away from his duties, and pulls him with her.

“You’ll watch over her and yourself, right?” She says, expectantly.

“Of course, Princess.” He teases, she sticks her tongue out at him and turns away.

“You better, Targaryen.” She says quieter, and then she turns to look at him. “You’re still my brother. You may not be to Sansa, and whatever is going on between you two,” and Jon jerks in surprise, “but you’re my brother. You always will be. And that’s final.” She orders, and he nods, smiling a bit.

“Hardly knows she’s a Princess for a day, and already giving orders.” She smiles, laughing unladylike, and then snorts before she sobers herself. Jon wants to ask her if Sansa has said anything, but thinks against it. He doesn’t want his possible last moments with Arya to be about his insecurity. Or his...his dishonorable feelings of the woman who used to be his sister.

“Did Sansa tell you what he did to her? What they all did to her?” She asks, voice cold.

“I saw...saw some of the scars. But she didn’t tell me everything.” He replies. “Mostly...just the shortened version.” 

She turned and looked at him. “I’m going with you to the Frays. I told Sansa last night, she can stay here, she can settle the North, but I’m going with you. I’ll leave some of the Wolves, but I think hitting the Fray's with wolves quietly, and then slotting up with an attack from the North would do best. Hit them fast and hard. From the Riverlands and the North, we’d destroy them.”

His eyes narrow, but she’s not even looking at him. She’s staring off, calculating as she watches the wolves slink in and out. She’s fierce, vicious, and more tied to Sansa than before, she hadn’t been happy when Jon had told her that she was their Queen, not just a fakeout to gain help and support. 

“You’re a wolf, too?” He hears himself say. She just smiles, not looking at him. 

“Sansa can feel it,” she says. “Just like I can feel her. But if I take that title from her, it’ll do more damage than good. We need to cement her title before we let others through. Rickon will be, too. But Sansa was the one to call the banners. They ignored her, though they’ll never admit it. Which means that Sansa needs to be the one to unite them in order for them to take her seriously. You were right, I was just too stubborn to admit it.”

“You’ve changed,” he hears himself saying again, without his permission. She turns and smiles. 

“We all have. We had too. Have too.” 

 

The Blacksmith and Gendry meet Sansa as she’s about to mount her horse, and Jon stands at her side. He’s got a box, and he opens it to reveal a small tiara, with a roaring wolf sigil engraved in the top of the pointed and highest peak of the crown. At the very tip of the crown is a shining opal, looking like the moon. It’s made of steel, she recognizes, and the crown has three peaks.

“Your Grace, one for the North, the highest peak, and the other two peaks for the Riverlands and the Iron Islands. Gendry here, helped me finish it last night. He’s quite a smithy, this boy is.” Sansa can almost feel the emotion well in her chest. 

Jon steps forward, taking it from the Smith, and moves to lay it on her head. She can hardly speak or do anything other than want to cry, but as she watches him lay the crown on her head, she thinks to herself softly, that a crown upon his head would look fitting. Their eyes lock and Sansa feels her belly twist again, and he breaks eye contact with her suddenly, bowing his head.

“Your Grace,” he says, voice deeper than it was before. Sansa motions for him to stand before she turns to face the smith and Gendry directly. 

She swallows, and curtseys to the smith and Gendry. “Thank you, both of you. I am honored and blessed by the Gods, old and new, to have such kind and dutiful followers.” 

“That’s not-I just-you’re our Queen,” the smith stutters out, blushing. He bows, stiffly and raises quickly, and Gendry stumbles to follow suit.

Sansa smiles. “And you and our people made me your Queen. Thank you, good sir. And thank you Gendry.” The smith looks pleased with himself, and Gendry nods, blushing as well.

“We will keep you in our prayers, your Grace.” She smiles gracefully, and then rises to mount her horse. Ghost and the two hundred or so Wolves line up behind them, and Sansa rides next to Jon, with Sigorn Thenn and Alys on the other side of her. Rickon stands with Arya, holding hands tightly and Sansa wants to stay, wants never to leave Winterfell, but she smiles.

“When we arrive back, we will have finished uniting the North.” She says confidently, and she hears a roar of approval. She turns to Sigorn Thenn, who nods and they begin their journey to Karhold.

 

The march takes a few days longer than expected, with several thousand men and women, a few hundred Wolves. Ghost leaves shortly when they’re meant to arrive, and Sansa trudges through the snow with Alys, both falling behind their respective protectors, but not too far behind. 

It’s a somber affair, even more so as she watches Alys struggle. She keeps herself schooled, but she can see the fear in her eyes when she thinks no one is watching. She doesn’t say much, but holds her hand when she sees fear turn to grief. She wants to be a friend: not like Margaery, who may have been kind, but would and did abandon her when it got difficult. She wants to be a true friend. And when Alys smiles through tears, and thanks her, the guilt doesn’t stop, but she feels Alys tighten her fingers around her own.

She keeps moving forward, her head held high, and the men and women around her become used to her presence. She goes to different men and women each night, speaks to them of their children, of their lovers, of their fathers and mothers and brothers and sisters. She goes to Free Folk, Northernmen, and she goes to those they nearly slaughtered but turned against their own Lords. Jon follows her everywhere, he listens as well, he smiles and laughs at their stories, and she sees the way that the men change around him, how they accept him.

And when they ride up to the valley leading up into the City of Karhold, and when they see the banners of House Karstark, Sansa steadies a breath and shares a look with Alys, who hardens herself and stands a pace behind her husband. Sansa rides between Jon and Sigorn, and they send a squire forward.

They refuse him, shooting arrows at his feet. And Jon rides forward.

“The Starks have retaken the North, will you not join us?” He asks, his voice rolling across the fields of snow and ice.

“Robb Stark killed our Lord, and now you have his traitorous bitch of a daughter with you? You bring an army, you bring those fucking barbarians? You’re a stupid fucker like your half-brother, and your whore of a half-sister may call herself Queen, but she’ll always be a whore!” Sansa doesn’t flinch, but the foul-mouthed man continues. “House Stark will be dead today!”

“Cregan, Your Grace.” Alys says quietly.

“My cousin, Sansa is the Queen. The rightful Queen, she defeated the Umbers, the Boltons. And now their fight with us, under the rightful Queen of the North. You speak of traitorous actions? Your uncle murdered two young boys, you raped and beat a defenseless woman. They deserved the death they got! Your cousin married one of these Barbarians, and now he’s the rightful heir to Karhold in your cousin’s action. You want your freedom? Then fight the rightful heir for it.” Sigorn rides forward, war paint and full of Northern Armor. He’s got a newly made Thenn sigil on his sheild, a warhammer at his side “Unless you’re too much of a coward, that is. I know that for a coward beating a woman is easier than fighting a man. I know that the Barbarians can be frightful fighters, stronger than any traitor like you.” The men behind Cregan, the large and bulbous man riding a large horse, thunder in anger. 

“Fuck you, Snow! Send that Barbarian forward, I’ll kill this fucker and then kill you, take my betrothed, and fuck your bitch Queen before I cut off her head like your brother killed my uncle!” He hollers, throwing himself down from the Horse. 

Sigorn turns to Jon and then to Sansa. “I’ll bring his head to you.” He says effortlessly. And then he turns to his wife. “And I’ll bring you your home.” He tells her, eyes hard, but just as effortlessly, before he get’s off his horse and meets the man in the center of the field. 

The man fights well, strong, and fierce. He’s been fighting his whole life, but like Sigorn said, he’s never had to fight to survive like the Free Folk have. They went to war, but they never faced extinction every day, extinction for just living. She watches, and Alys tenses behind her, and she swallows and waits.

Sigorn ducks, shield coming up and he swings, and it collides. 

A sword swipes along Sigorn’s side.

The warhammer collides with a shield, denting it. 

She hears each quiet gasp and flinch makes as each hit is taken, until Sigorn finally swings hard enough to crush an arm, the crunch was loud, and made Sansa’s stomach turn. And when Sigorn throws him down, swinging hard again, blood explodes from the man’s mouth, but Sansa doesn’t look away. He swings again, and the man stops moving.

The field goes silent, and Sansa also is silent. And then someone screams, and shoots a lit arrow across the field, and it lands a few hundred feet from Sansa. But something on the snow lights, and flames engulf a strip across the field. And then men run for Sigorn. 

Sansa feels panic well in her chest-there won’t be enough time to get around the fire, Sigorn-

And Jon leaps off of his stallion and throws himself into and out of the fire, running for Sigorn. Men are already rushing around the fire, and Wolves throw themselves over it behind Jon, and then a rain of arrows come from the mist shrouding the river.

And Sansa knows now that this is just the first battle. The first of many.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was pretty quick to write, and it's not as long as my other chapters, but a lot goes on, and a lot is alluded too. Also, we get to see quite a few new characters.  
> As always, let me know if there are any errors, and thank you for reading this!  
> -Im_gonna_show_you

The Blood of the Wolf  
Chapter Eleven

Sansa knew pain. Physical, she knew. Emotional, she knew. Mental, she knew. She’d been beaten with the flat side of a sword. She’d been slapped. She’d been stripped. She’d lost her brother, her mother, her father, and she’d lost two other brothers and a sister. She’d been a plaything over and over. She’d been raped, she’d been tortured and beaten all over again. But it didn’t prepare her for the disgust she felt, not for this, but for herself. 

She wasn’t ready for the feeling of acceptance that had settled in her belly. She didn’t like it, she didn’t like that she was willing to accept this. All of this death, all of this pain, for what? How could she accept this? The blood that soaked the snow had bled across the field. It’s like an ocean of blood, and the fire that had at one point been nearly six feet tall, had quelled and burned off. 

She sits on her horse, tall and solemn, accepting, and glad that her Jon survived. Sigorn brings her Cregan’s head, eyes still widened and open but frosted over and she takes it, surprising both herself and Jon, but Sigorn nods with appreciation and acceptance to her. 

He then turns to his wife, still on horseback, and he leads her through the blood soaked fields, leads her to her home. 

“We won.” Jon tells her. And she breaths in, slow. He takes the head from her, carefully and hands it to another man, one she doesn’t know, and tells him to gather the bodies and begin a pyre. Take their armor, he says. Take their weapons, but leave them with their sigils.

She can taste the iron in the air, she can smell the rank, violent smell of flesh, fire, and bile. She nods, slowly, and looks down to him.

“Not without a cost.” She says. He doesn’t argue with her, but she dismounts and approaches him, and he’s splattered in blood, across his face, his throat, his arms are covered in it, and he looks more tired than he ever has before. 

She moves forward, taking his face in her hands. “Forever, Jon. Forever will I be indebted to you.” She says to him, and she means it. “Forever will you and I be by each other's sides.” Because while the light may be dimming inside of her, while she may lose herself, Jon will be the constant. The one who's still the same, underneath. And they share a hard look, and Sansa knows she’s doomed.

 

Meeting with Yara turned out to be more problematic than she imagined, though, she should have prepared herself better.

“She’s a traitor!” Men yell, and Sansa clenches her fists.

“As are you! The only difference between her and you? She has more sense!” She snapped, angry, eyes flashing the color of amber and the men flinched back. “She came when you turned your back on your oaths, a daughter of a rival King, why? Because she believes in our cause! We must ready ourselves, we will be fighting the dead soon, we will be fighting the Other’s army! These Iron Islanders you hate so much may just save your lives one day!”

Sansa wasn’t foolish enough to believe that Yara did what she did out of the kindness of her heart. She’d heard stories of the Princess, strong, fierce, and headstrong. She’s blunt, but fair. She knows that had her father won, she wouldn’t be here. Honor doesn’t compel her like it compels Jon, but she was here. She bent her knee, she offered her assistance, and loyalty is rewarded.

“I admired my father, but he was a fool. All he did was lead his own men to their deaths. We should have looked for peace.” She says evenly. Sansa nods, slowly, but watches her carefully, before turning to the man standing next to her, fuller, but not less changed as he avoids Jon’s thunderous glare, and he shakes next to her. “Will you kill him?” Yara asks, her voice low, eyes narrowed. Sansa understands, she herself has lost a brother to death, and Bran...well he could be as dead as Robb. She knows what Yara faces.

“The Northernmen will call for his blood. But I will not have it. Should he survive this war, he will be banned from the North. And as it stands, he is not allowed in Winterfell, and he is not allowed to any of the Council meetings you will be apart of.” She tells Yara. “He’s suffered enough, and he is the one that has to live with his crimes. But he is not forgiven. Nor will blood be given for his crimes, for saving my own.” He looks at her, and Jon is still shaking, and Theon bows, dropping to one knee.

“I...if I could choose again,” he says quietly.

And Jon stiffens, but speaks, coldly. “We all would.” And then he leaves, hands shaking, wishing they could wrap around the throat of the man that betrayed his brother, but he trusts Sansa. He has too: if he doesn’t, he has nothing. She’s been the one who was there after his revival, and here she stays with him. 

She turns to Yara. “Thank you, for your help and your support. You will be rewarded.” She says smoothly, but Yara isn’t watching her.

“He really is a Targaryen. Never thought I’d see a man so willing to walk through a wall of fire for a man who he barely knows. A man he probably tried to kill, once at least.” She says, and Sansa feels an odd combination of jealousy and gratefulness.

“It’s Jon’s way. It always will be.” She says, instead of settling for the anger that sinks into her belly as Yara eyes him. 

“At least he’s not mad.” She says, nodding to herself.

 

That night Sansa dreams of Winterfell, but it’s not as she remembers it. The walls are taller, stronger. It’s no longer winter, and Sansa watches from where her mother and father would watch the boys practice. It’s just as dreary, with mud caked everywhere. But now she can appreciate it better, the sun shines and they’re happy. The boys are happy.

Only it's not her brothers and sister.

“Breath in and out, Torrhen, in and out. Stop that shakin, it’ll throw the arrow,” a young man says, his voice light and airy, but it has a deep grace about it. He’s tall, lean, and graceful. He’s pale, with light blonde hair and blue eyes like her own, though they sink into a near purple shade when he looks up and smiles at her. His hair is tied back, like Jon’s is now, a piece having fallen and it curls to frame his face. He wears black leather armor, with both Targaryen and Stark sigils on it. And a high collar, that covers his pale neck.

Next to him is a man not much younger than the blonde haired man, though his dark hair and more muscular features remind her of a mix between Robb and Jon. His beard is just coming in, like Robb and Jon’s had before she left. He’s dark haired like Jon, though, but has Robb’s nose and father’s smile. He’s broader than the boy next to him, handsome, but less in a graceful way and more in a masculine way. “Listen to Aemon, Torrhen. Breath deep and slow, relax yourself.” He instructs. He’s wearing Stark armor, but she can see the three headed dragon embellished on his collar. 

“I’m trying, Ed,” the boy says. He lets the arrow fly, but it misses it’s target. He looks like Rickon, she thinks to herself. Light hair and wild curls. He pouts, but restrings persistently. He wears the Stark sigil, and blue eyes narrow in concentration. He has no Targaryen marks, but she can see the Tully and Stark in him.

“It’salright,” a young boy says, around Arya’s age now. He looks like Ed, but has Aemon’s eyes, though they favor indigo rather than just blue. He’s lanky, awkward, but his jaw is strong and he’s handsome, and will no doubt catch many women’s eyes the older he gets. “You’ll get it, but aunt Arya might have to beat it into ‘ya.” He says, teasingly. He’s got a mischievous side to him, she feels. But he moves to correct Torrhen’s stance gently.

“Oh, hush Robb,” Arya says, stepping out from under the edge of the balcony Sansa stands on. “Your cousin will get it eventually, you weren’t a master at 10.” She says easily, stepping forward, her hair long and tied into a simple braid. She realizes with shock, that her belly is swollen with a babe, and her throat closes at the thought of it, but Arya grins, she looks happy, so happy.

A girl rides into the training grounds, red hair flying against the wind freely, a small girl riding in front of her. The small girl's hair is near a white blonde, like Aemon, her cheeks round like Rickon’s were at her age, but the older girl is tall and graceful like Sansa, with a wild streak as she thrusts herself off of the horse. The little girl looks at her sister in wonder, smiling and laughing, grey eyes flashing with happiness. Both, though, are more beautiful than Sansa, more beautiful than Cersei and Margaery, and she smiles at them.

“Cat,” Arya says, and the redheaded girl looks back, lifting the small girl from the horse. “Be careful with Lyanna, you know how your sister gets when you jerk her about like that.” She warns, and the small girl groans, wrapping small arms around her sister's neck, seemingly settling herself.

A boy rides behind her, red hair like Robb and Sansa, but too young to have a beard like Jon and Robb, delicate features and thin body. He looks to be Cat’s age, and he grins when he sees his sisters.

“Lyanna did well,” he says.

“Aye, she did Rickard, but you could hardly take your eyes off Jocelyn Thenn! You nearly fell off your horse!” Cat yells, laughing. 

“Leave your brother alone, Cat.” Jon says, moving forward and out of the castle, to Cat, he reaches forward and kisses her forward.

“Sorry, father.” She says, laughing and hugging him tight. He takes Lyanna, and leans her against his side. Jon looks up, and gives her a smile that makes her heart clench, and Cat looks up as well.

“Mother! Did you see me riding?”

Sansa nods, smiling, and she feels light headed as the others continue on with their practicing, Jon sparing a lingering look, tracing from her face down to her belly, and when she looks down, she realizes that her belly, as well, is swollen with a babe. When she looks up at him again, he grins at her, before turning to Cat, Lyanna, and Rickard.

Someone touches her hand, and Sansa jerks to turn.

It’s Bran.

He smiles at her, tall, like her and at her height, she can see his eyes directly. He looks so handsome, so bright and she feels the tears fall from her eyes. He smiles, and reaches forward to wipe off her tears, and Sansa reaches forward to touch his face, he’s real, she thinks. He’s here with me, in this dream, this sweet, sweet dream.

“Keep going,” he says, and she understands what he means, but Sansa wonders how all of this could be hers. 

“What is this?” Bran smiles, and takes her hand and she hopes he’ll never let go.

“A possible future, your possible future, if you keep going.” She feels her heart flutter, feels happiness sink into her bones and chest and fingers and toes as she looks them over again, Aemon and Ed, Robb and Torrhen, Cat and Lyanna and Rickard, Jon and Arya.

“This...this is all mine?” She whispers, her heart pounding in her chest.

“It can be, if you fight for it.” Sansa turns to her brother, and she feels the tears fall more freely.

“When will I see you again, Bran? I want to see you again, we all do.” He smiles at her, but it’s not as bright as before. It’s not as happy as before.

“I don’t know, but I know that we will. But the Walkers are coming, they’re mounting their forces and you need to be prepared. You need the Dragon Queen and the Dragon Prince, Aegon, and Jon. The Prophecy needs all three of them.” He tells her, brushing her hair softly.

“Prince Aegon is dead, the mountain killed him when he was a babe,” she says, frowning in confusion. He shakes his head.

“No, no he’s alive. A boy shrouded in blue, with a man shrouded in stone, follower to his father to protect him. Jon and Aegon and Daenerys must unite to save us all. They must ride the Dragon’s past the wall, you must defeat them once and for all. If you do that, you will have all of this, Sansa. You will have it all.”

“Will I have you too?” She asks, softly. He laughs, wraps his arm around her and kisses her forehead.

“Even when I am not with you, you have always have me.”

She wakes, cold, sweating, and crying. Jon rises from his chair, and he sits on her bed and holds her. She tells him that she’s seen Bran, that he’s so handsome, that he came to her and told her that they needed Daenerys and Aegon.

But she doesn’t tell him of light haired Aemon and Lyanna, or darkhaired Ed and Robb, or red headed Cat and Rickard, or of their nephew Torrhen or Arya, of their love and marriage and the babe that has yet to be born. But she tells him that she knows it was a vision, and he agrees, he holds her and whispers to her that he will do it. That he will untie the three of them, that he will bring Bran back, that he will bring safety back.

“For you, for Arya, for Rickon, for Bran,” he worships over and over like a prayer.

And she wonders when her love for her brother turned to the love of Jon, just Jon, the man, this man who would do anything for her and her family. Sansa memorizes the faces of those men and boys and girls, she memorizes how Jon looked at her, and she memorizes the feeling of a babe in her belly or how Arya laughed, so free like before.

She could fight for that, she would fight for that.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, if you see any errors, let me know!  
> -Im_gonna_show_you

The Blood of the Wolf  
Chapter Twelve

If Catelyn, her mother, was here, she’d decide based on what her husband would do. She would think like him, she would decide like him. But Sansa was a Queen, she didn’t quite understand her father, either. She wasn’t a girl raised with knowledge of what is right and wrong when it comes to war. She has some idea, murder and war are not the same. And so she thought of what Jon would do. Jon wasn’t happy with Arnolf, who is an old man and continued shouting as they had tried to speak peace with him. And when he put a spike through Tormund’s hand, and Brienne had thrown the old man to the Ground and nearly killed him, she only stopped when Jon told her too.

They’d make an example of him. That had been a move that he hadn’t run by her, and she was grateful. In a rash of anger, she wouldn’t have thought like him. The wolf in her called for his blood, for Jeyne, for Alys, for Vayon, for Robb, for Tormund.

Arnolf Karstark is an old man, white hair and beady eyes, meaty body and cold glare. He’s wide and his frame is small, fat rolling off of him, tipping his body forward unnaturally. He shouts the entire time Jon sentences him, in her name. She watches as Jon takes off his head, and she thinks to herself: another head to add to the lives she’s now taken. There’s silence in the field, and Sigorn keeps his hand on his wife, who looks halfway between exhaustion and vomiting. 

In the last few hours alone, four fistfights have already broken out. The Umbers were different: they were loyal to the Starks. They hadn’t been happy with Smalljon’s betrayal, and they remembered. They were disgusted with Smalljon, but he was the heir. The Karstarks saw themselves as better, and from the whispers she’d begun to hear, had even planned on overthrowing House Bolton. Alys told her that she didn’t actually know that this was the plan, but her father and his brother always longed for power. 

Keep going, she hears Bran whisper again, and she hears Robb’s laugh and sees his mischievous smile, and she hardens, but does not freeze. She see’s Cat’s gentle hands around Lyanna, and her adoration for Jon.

“The dead will rise soon. The dead will take on the wall, and their numbers are larger than ours. While you fight each other, while you fight us, armies of men born of Ice gather to kill you and use your dead body for meat for their armies. They aren’t kind like we are. They don’t care about your bad blood, they only care that they can use your body after your soul leaves, maybe even to tear apart the ones you love.” She says, loud and standing before them. 

“We’re not asking you to forget your dead,” Jon says, his voice rumbling across the center of the town. “We asked for Cregan and Arnolf’s help. We told them of the dead coming, of the Others. They didn’t listen. Instead, they threw threats. Instead, his nephews ignored the rights of honorable combat. They attacked us, not the other way around. We sought a way with little bloodshed.” He says.

“We’re not asking you to pay for their crimes, we’re not trying to enslave you. We want your support. I know that you can’t see it, but Sigorn Thenn is an honorable man. He protected his men and brought refugees across the Wall, he fought for the safety of his men, and the elderly, children, and sick under his protection. He will do the same for you.” Sansa says, looking to them all.

They don’t actively argue with her, but she can tell that they don’t agree with her. She can feel the mistrust, she can feel the anger. She looks back at Alys, who nods slowly and steps forward.

“You all knew my father, my brothers, my uncle and cousins. You knew their tempers, it ran through them like winter runs through a Northern Man. Easily and comforting.” She says, and she almost smiles. “I love my father. I love my brothers. I love my family for what they were: brave, strong, and fierce. But they weren’t perfect. My father killed two boys. It doesn’t change that I love him, but justice, above all, must be found and set out. He told me that once. He told me that the Starks were good, they were fair, and we were indebted to them. Not only for their legacy, but for the food they helped us store in long winters. For their help during sickness and flu. For their support and love, quiet and constant.” She says, soothingly. Sansa sees her transform under her eyes, and Sansa wonders how she managed a friend like Alys.

“My father was blinded by his rage. He faced his justice, and we have every right to feel pain, every right to feel rage. But we cannot let it cloud our judgement. When the Queen accepted me, she offered me to a man I’d been taught to fear. A man that I’d been told would be a barbarian. But he’s been kinder to me than Cregan has ever been. More fair than my father was, less blinded than my father and brothers. He fought with honor when my cousins did not. This isn’t about Wildlings and Northerners anymore. It’s about loyalty and what’s right, and it’s about survival. The dead are rising, and together is the only way that we will survive.” She continues, her voice unwavering. 

“If I did not think he was worthy of Karhold, of you, I would not be by his side today. I could have chosen to stay in Winterfell, away from him. But I came because Karhold is mine, it is his, and it is ours.” They settle better at her words, but Sansa already knows that it will not be without a fight.

“I don’t want Sansa alone at anytime,” Jon says to Brienne and Tormund. They nod.

“Aye, your sister is not safe, nor are you. But these men are too much of cowards to attack the Dragon boy. We will take turns watching her,” Tormund agrees before Brienne can respond, but his comment seems to appease her. They’re more relaxed around each other, as well, Sansa notices.

“Someone should keep an eye on Alys.” Sansa says quietly.

“Sigorn is already on that,” Tormund says. “Her two ‘handmaids’ are spearwives, they try to get past them, they’ll be gutted ear to cock. The Thenns don’t fuck around, he’ll slaughter anyone that tries to lay a hand on her.” He says seriously.

Sansa nods, and turns to Jon.

“We need Karhold settled, but we can’t stay either. They don’t trust us, but Alys seemed to get through to them.” Jon nods, and she watches his face, clean from yesterday, but his scars look somewhat agitated as he scratches them, his eyes more serious that she thinks she’s ever seen him.

She wants to see him smile now like he will, she wants him to look at her like he did in the vision, but since last night, he avoids her eyes. He seems colder, and he seems more withdrawn.

She doesn’t know why.

 

They have two more days before they leave for the Last Hearth. Two more days until she readies for her journey across what’s becoming a frozen tundra.

“I need a plan,” Sansa says. “We know what’s coming: something of nightmares. But all they see is a winter. One that they think they’re prepared for, but never will be.” She says to Davos. And he nods. “They need an option to grow their own food through the winter. And only Winterfell, the Last Hearth, and White Harbor.”

He nods, his eyes smiling to her, but the rest of his face stays grim. “We have Lannister and Bolton Gold. A lot of it. They’d repaired winterfell, but shoddily. That will have to be faced as well.” She nods, and curses herself silently for not thinking of that. “They should also begin cutting the trees down, for firewood. Soon it’ll be too cold for the villagers outside of all of the castles too live there. They’ll need to begin building buildings as well, to store the refugees.” He adds.

She nods. “Glass gardens, firewood, and more shelter.” She mutters to herself.

“Armor, swords, weapons, medical supplies.” He adds.

“And War rations.” She adds, and the lists of things for that go longer than she can imagine. She breathes in sharply, but Davos reaches forward and grasps her hand and looks at her seriously.

“You will have help. A quality of a leader is knowing when to delegate and knowing when to do things yourself. You will have to name someone your hand. And you will need to delegate a small council, your grace.” Sansa waves her hand in dismissal.

“Please, Ser Davos, call me Sansa while we are in private. I have some suggestions, for the council. We need Tormund or Sigorn on it, but they cannot be given a title too powerful, not yet. Not until they prove themselves.” Davos smiles, nodding.

“Aye, you are right. You will need a commander of both the Northern and Free Folk, but they need to be willing to work together closely.” 

She thinks for a moment, eyes closed and breaths deep. “Tormund should be in charge of the Free Folk army. He himself, was Mance Rayder's second. Which means he’s highly respected by them. Yara will be the Master of Ships, which also reminds me that we will need more ships.” She says hurried, and Davos takes her hand again.

“Think of only the Small Council. One mountain at a time.” She nods, and breaths slowly.

“Tormund as Commander of the Free Folk Armies. Yara is the Master of Ships. Master of coin...will be Wylis Manderly. He himself has the most profitable family in the North. When...when we regain the Riverlands, my great uncle, should he survive, will be named master of Laws. The Master Commander of the Northern Armies should be Lord Reed. He came when I called for him and has been loyal to my father for years, and he and Brienne lead a successful siege of Winterfell right under Ramsay’s nose. As for Leader of the Kingsguard… I have Brienne, and Pod by extension. Not only that but if I need to be defended I can defend myself. As for my advisors? Robett Glover, Maege Mormont, Sigorn Thenn and Alys, Torghen Flint Uncle Edmure, Wyman Manderly and...Lord Magnar. And you, of course. But we must free house Tallhard, thought I believe Yara should. It may gain some good blood, but they won’t be happy to have her. And I’ve been told that House Hornwood has an heir, an illegitimate one, but an heir. We could legitimize him.” She says quietly, and Davos smiles.

“I will be honored to join your Small Council, and I do believe that you have chosen well. But you have forgotten the Hand of the King, Sansa.”

She frowns, biting her lip and sighs heavily. “Jon, but I do not think he will accept.” Davos frowns, slipping his hands together, and nods slowly. She looks past him, to the map that lays the North. “He doesn’t want power. I don’t, either. But...but sometimes we must do things that we wish we did not have too. But...after he’s done what he’s done for me, I don’t know if I can ask him for more.”

“Will...will you ask Melisandre to join the council?” He asks, and Sansa shakes her head.

“I...I will not doubt that she has some ability to see the future, Ser Davos. But...her God...he demands too much. We...we face monsters. We face death and destruction, I...I cannot, with good conscience, force this council to follow the same. And to no offense, I respect Stannis Baratheon and what he had accomplished. But...I cannot.” She finishes quietly. 

He smiles, and nods, but it’s not in happiness or gratefulness. It’s like he’s remembering something.

“He was a great man, a different man, cold...but just. Ruthless, but fair. She...she blinded him I think. It’s good of you to see the mistakes of others and learn from them. You have no other experience, Sansa. You will need to learn, and learn quickly, from the mistakes of others.”

Sansa nods, and she wonders to herself how she could do that, how she could learn from all of their mistakes, and then she remembers something that Cersei had told her once, that tears weren’t a women’s only tool. She knew that she had meant her body would be a tool, but she was right. A woman in her place doesn’t have the option to make mistakes. If she doesn’t learn from others, everything she’s fighting for will fall.

When she calls on Yara and instructs her to liberate the North from the Ironborn, she isn’t exactly happy. She tells her so, and Sansa sighs.

“I need you and I need the North. If they cannot trust you, I cannot have you both. You know what position I am in, I am a woman. They already think of me as less.” She says, and Yara takes a deep, growling breath before nodding.

“Aye, I’ll do as you say. But if I can get around it, I’ll do it without killing my men.”

Sansa levels a stare. “Should they join our cause, they will be your men. But remember, Yara, that you betrayed your uncle. Do not trust them until they give you reason.” She says, and Yara smirks, which surprises Sansa, but she doesn’t show it.

“It seems like you understand more of this world than most. If only the men that rule this Godforsaken country did as well, but at least you know that loyalty isn’t a given, it’s something that needs to be maintained.”

If only she had understood that earlier, if only her brother and her father had, as well. Maybe, just maybe, things would have turned out differently.

 

Two more fistfights, and one death. That’s what it takes to make Alys forgo her handmaidens and begin working with the healers, singing songs and telling them of Free Folk tales that Sigorn had told her, with the healer spearwives and men filling in blanks that she’d forgotten.

She told embarrassing stories of herself, told them how she’d once danced with Sansa’s brother, and Jon. She told them of the knife Sigorn had given her, one that she keeps on her at all times know. She tells them that she hadn’t understood it then, because she had only met him and was struggling to understand his ways. But she tells them that it was a gift, one to tell her that he wanted her to live. 

The bleeding and aching men listened, listened with quiet reservations, but their fighting lessened and when they left to go home, the fights stopped for the night. And then the next morning, and another night, and then more days, until only squabbles of words broke out when Sansa and Jon readied to leave with Tormund, Sigorn, and Brienne. 

Sansa watches Alys closely, but Alys only smiles, and jerks awkwardly in a wave. 

“Thank you, Alys. I’m not quite sure what I’ve done to deserve you.” She tells her softly, and Alys looks surprised, but smiles, radiant.

“I’ll keep things together, I promise. Just...just watch out for him, please? He and...he and Tormund don’t know our ways.” Sansa nods, and reaches for her hand, and while they clasp tightly Sansa sighs heavily.

“I swear it.” 

Ser Davos watches her as she leaves, and he settles in a slow gait next to her. “I once wondered how men had been able to keep this peace for so long, how our country hadn’t dissolved into a bloodthirsty and violent pit of bears, wolves, lions, snakes, and krakens. But now I know.”

Sansa turns to him, raising her eyebrows in wonder and he smiles.

“It’s the women, you keep us lesser men tied back. Perhaps if more women were Queens, we’d be more peaceful.” Sansa smiles, as she thinks of her mother, of Cersei, of Lysa, of herself, and she shakes her head.

“No, Ser Davos. Women are just like men, some are kind, some are cruel, some are stern, some are crazed, and some are a mix of all of that. The only difference is that we’re seen of as lesser, so a kind women means less than a crazed man. Perhaps, if women were given a chance, there would be more peace. But that doesn’t mean there won’t be people like Cersei Lannister.” Or my aunt, she thinks to herself. Davos, thinks for a few moments, before nodding.

“Aye, I think you’re right. But I think you, and men, underestimate the power women have. It may not be in battle or open, but Cersei Lannister, your mother, and even Shireen, had some sway over their husbands and fathers. Perhaps, not enough or in a way that was needed, but it was there.”

And Sansa supposes he’s right, in a way. So she nods and smiles a sad smile.

“If only we lived in a better world.”


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My goodness, I am so sorry for being so late, my mother go married on Sunday and I wasn't staying at my house and forgot my laptop. So sorry! But here it is, and let me know if you see any errors!  
> -Im_gonna_show_you

The Blood of the Wolf  
Chapter Thirteen

The Last Hearth is a massive fortress, bulky and square, with a wall of thick tree trunks as it’s wall. There’s a moat around it, with a long, wide bridge leading to it, it’s probably a twelve foot drop, but she remembers hearing stories of the men who had once tried to attack it. They fell to their deaths, the water so deep and so cold, the height had given them some sort of expectation they wouldn’t drown to death, with more and more men falling all over them. The lower Lords of the Last Hearth walk forward, just behind Tormund. He walks forward, proud and bulky, but the people watch them mistrustful. They’d been given word by their lower lords, and they’d also been given word that their lord handed over a young boy to die at the hand of a man who hunted women for fun. 

A man steps forward, hair tied back, face round and full. 

“Lord Tormund Giantsbane, of the Free Folk and Lord of the Last Hearth.” He says loud, voice wavering a bit as he looks around. Tormund frowns, and Sansa understands why.

They look near starving, freezing, and when they look around, it’s obvious that they’ve been forced to live in small makeshift huts.

“Is there a main hall?” Tormund asks, and the man turns around.

“Aye, a large one, we shall start a feast for your honor?” He asks, and Tormund snorts in disgust.

“No, start moving these people in there. There’s no reason these people should freeze their asses off out’ere when there’s shelter for them. Get a stew being made, these people look like they haven’t eaten in weeks!” He orders, and the people look a mix of surprise and confusion. “Pick up your belongings, you’re going into the main hall, all of you that can fit. Those who can’t we’ll find somewhere else for you, get yer asses moving!”

Sansa smiles, forgetting herself, as people begin to move, and she turns to her men and nod. They themselves begin moving things, and Sansa dismounts, walking over to a woman with two babes, a basket, and two toddlers. She grabs the basket from her, and takes a little ones hand and begins helping them move, others behind her.

It takes short work, moving them all inside of the Main Hall with everyone willing to lend a hand, and once they’ve begun collecting the firewood, the people settle easily.

When they’re finished, and the stew comes out, Tormund and his people eat last, making sure that all of the people eat. But before they eat, he hands Sansa a bowl, and then Jon, Davos, Sigorn, and Brienne, before he serves himself and his men serve themselves.

Sansa mingles amongst the people, learning names, learning stories, and learning faces. She learns of the lost time, and finds herself even telling a few of her own stories, laughing with them as Tormund gets to know his men, laughing and telling ridiculous and wild stories. Jon follows her, and she sees the blushes that sets young girls faces aflame when they set their eyes on him. 

She smiles, but her stomach twists in anguish. 

 

The first night there is comforting, and she already feels safer now than she had ever before. The Umber brothers, Hother and Mors had died a few months earlier, one of a cold and one to a sickness that had claimed him about a year earlier. With no one to pick up after Smalljon, he had let things fall apart. Then, when he found Rickon Stark, he’d seen it as a chance for power, again.

She stays in a room with Jon, like she had before, this night. 

She watches Jon, as he stares into the fire, grimm, and unmoving. His elbow rests on the arm of the chair, his hand holding his face and Sansa rises to him, picking up a brush and moving behind him.

“May I?” 

He jerks a bit, blinking and then nodding, rising to pull his hair from his small elastic, and she begins unknotting, slowly brushing his curls slowly.

“When I was little, I always wondered why you had beautiful curly hair and I didn’t.” She muses, laughing quietly, and Jon stiffens and turns, a dark brow raised. “I’m not joking, every night when I pulled apart my braids I always loved that my hair wasn’t straight. The only thing that I didn’t like was that it hurt, with snarls, in comparison to my straight hair.”

She runs her fingers through his hair, and he relaxes under her hands.

“You always had the most beautiful hair.” He says quietly. “The Free Folk say it’s a sign of good luck, being kissed by fire.” She feels herself smile, and she continues brushing, slowly and evenly. 

It’s quiet for a bit longer, and finally Sansa rests her hands on his shoulders and breaths deep.

“Something’s wrong, Jon. You’ve been there for me since I came to Castle Black, let me be there for you.” She whispers softly to him, and she prays that he listens to her. He doesn’t speak for a long time, but he leans his head back against her, and she presses herself closer, greedily taking what he’ll give her. 

“I’ve...I’ve seen things. Horrible, horrible things. In my dreams, I could see things before, but now...since my rebirth. I see fire and ice, blood and death, always death.” He whispers, and he turns into her open palm, his face clenching together. “I’ve seen my mother, I’ve seen my father, their lives, their deaths...she loved him, Sansa. Truly...and he sought her out only for the prophecy. The three heads of the Dragon, a song of fire and ice...when Elia Martell could no longer bare the third child he wanted so bad, he chose the frozen lady of the North. She was like you and Arya, so strong and soft, gentle and kind, but she saw what Robert was.” He tells her, and it’s like suddenly his body has gone boneless, as the pain he’s hidden falls from him.

“He cared for her, he made her think he loved her...and maybe he did, but not in a way that a husband should love his wife. Not like father and Lady Stark, not like...like I…” He pauses, and pulls away from her. “He was not the man that they said him to be. He was somber...somber like me. He wasn’t gallant or romantic, he...he was like me.” And then Sansa frowns.

“And I am like my mother in many ways. But we are not our parents, Jon. We belong to ourselves, to our own fates. You are Jon. The same Jon that stayed loyal to the Night’s Watch, the same man that became the commander. The same man that fought for all those free folk to have safety, the same man that died and came back, the same man who fought for me. For Rickon, for Arya, for Winterfell. You are Jon, the man that saved me. The man that has been given, time and time over, the crown to share with me, and has refused. You’re that man. Not Rhaegar Targaryen. Nor Eddard Stark. Or Lyanna, you are Jon, and Jon is you.” She says to him, running her fingers softly through his hair. 

“I remember when I first got to Kings Landing. Joffrey was so handsome, so seemingly gallant, so honorable. Jaimie Lannister was as well, and so were the other Knights-Loras Tyrell. But all of them were cheats. Joffrey was sadistic and cruel, Jaimie Lannister fathered children with his twin sister, and truth be told, didn’t even love them until it was too late. Loras Tyrell rode a mare in heat, the day of his tourney. Dear God, the mountain? He’s horrible, yet he’s a knight. The kindest? A cruel, marred man called the hound, in his bitterness, he kept me from throwing myself off of a bridge. He covered me when I was stripped, protected me when the men who took oaths to protect others, didn’t. An imp whose face was nearly cut open, he protected me from his nephew’s wrath, and let me keep my maidenhood. He was a friend to me, when I had none.” She whispers to him, before she turns and steps forward, kneeling at his feet. “Jon, all of those men who hurt me loved themselves. The ones who protected me…? They all hated themselves, even if they didn’t admit it.” She takes his hand, and presses it against her mouth.

“I would take thousands of you, for even half of them, Jon. Because you are true, and they? All they are is pretenders.” She whispers and she watches his dark eyes, and she smiles, gently, and softly. “Maybe he wasn’t what they said he was, but that doesn’t mean he was a monster. Maybe he was doing what he thought was right, it may not have been, but misguided and monstrous are two, very, very different things. And...and if my rambling doesn’t help, learn from his mistakes.” She finishes softly, but she doesn’t move. 

He just keeps watching her, before he moves and reaches for her long tresses, his bare fingers intertwining in them, and he smiles, it’s small, but it’s a smile she feels she hasn’t seen in ages. 

“It’s like you’re not of this world, Sans. You’re so...ethereal. You always know what to say.” He says quietly, and she shakes her head, turning away from him. 

“No, Jon. I’ve made mistakes, I had to learn. Even now, I’m learning.” He doesn’t reply, only runs his hands against her scalp, through her long red hair, until Sansa settles against his leg, closing her eyes and falling into a dark slumber. She dreams of screaming, but sees red flames, she sees nothing but fire.

 

She wakes curled into her bed, her face placed in Ghost’s fur. Her eyes burn, as if she’d stared into the flames for hours as it came closer to her, never close enough to singe, but close enough to dry out her eyes. 

She feels a body behind her, slow, steady breathing, and Sansa can feel that it’s Jon. She remembers the feeling of her body pressed against her, and he always sleeps on his back, head tilted to either side, hand on his chest, twitching, every so often. She moans quietly, her body aches of a pain she feels she’s never felt before. 

She sits up slowly, and breathes deeply, slowly, and feels herself shake. She suddenly feels the urge to vomit, but she’s pulled forward, the darkness of the room disappearing into flame, and she sees Kings Landing, she sees the city that was once her prison erupt into flames. She sees Cersei, her mouth curled into a snarl.

“I told you, I would watch this city burn before I ever faced trial,” she screams, her hair shorn short. She scratches at her face, blood and skin peeling away. Sansa can smell the burning flesh, smell the fire as it burns away the people, the guards. 

She sees Margaery next, running, sprinting, and Tommen, shoving her in front of him. 

“Go! Go! I must find the Sparrow!”

“No, Tommen, come with me! The Gods will protect him, please, come with me!”

“No, I must find him!” He’s off running before she can stop him. He’s running through the city, and the walls of fire and she can’t look away. The walls of fire explode all around her, and she sees children burning, and bile gathers in her throat. And then her vision is jerked again, to little Tommen, not older than her, not older than Bran, burning, screaming, crying for his mother. He’s crying, she knows he is, but the wildfire eats it away, and he screams and screams for his mother. His skin is charring, melting, and his skin cracks and then it stops, his eyes wide as he continues to burn, continues to char, and the fire keeps burning.

Sansa throws herself over Jon, stumbling out of bed and vomiting, gasping, crying, and hysterical. 

Jon is out of bed, suddenly behind her and pulling her hair back, but the vomit keeps coming, until she’s vomiting no longer, but her body shakes and tries to emit what Sansa holds no longer. He’s kissing her forehead, her head, the back of her neck, whispering over and over to breath, to take a deep breath, but she can’t.

Tommen, little sweet, little naive Tommen-he-is that what Grandfather endured?

She heaves through her crying, and she chokes out acid, until she’s just shaking, crying and Jon holds her tight against his chest. 

She thinks of sweet, kind, and young Tommen, of Myrcella, two children made from the monstrosity that is Cersei Lannister, related to Joffrey, and she wonders how two things so precious could have been created from such evil. And then she wonders, how has it taken this long for her to corrupt it? If only she had waited longer, if only she had raised Tommen right, he could have been a good king. But Cersei poisoned everything she held close, and Sansa weeps for Tommen, the innocent child who had been kind to her. 

“She-she burned the city, Cersei burned the city!” She stuttered out, shaking, trembling and gasping for air that doesn’t burn. She buries her face into Jon, grasping, reaching, and crying. “Sh-she burnt them all, her son with them, he was just a boy,” she chokes. “H-he was trying to help people, and he died calling for her,” and the sob that wracks through her body is hard, and she feels Jon shift, moving her up and lifting her.

He sits on the bed, Sansa awkwardly sprawled on top of him, and he turns her, and Ghost whines, he holds her as her mother had when she’d gotten too tall, still like an infant, but body sprawled out, and he just holds her. Her brushes his fingers through her hair, and he just presses his lips against her hair.

“Breath, breath, slow down, just breath,” but Sansa sees Tommen, innocent Tommen, and she sees the people burn to ash, burn to death, and she cannot get the sight of him screaming for his mother, and all Sansa can see is her own mother.

She stays with him until Brienne comes, until Jon can no longer stay hidden. And when Sansa looks into the pool of water in her washing bowl, she steels herself. She hides the pain under a carefully created facade, and she pretends again, she pretends to be Queen of the North. Brienne knows, but around her she doesn’t have to pretend.

“The city burns, and will continue too. The south is falling and the King is dead.” She murmurs to her. She can see the wonder and the surprise, but Sansa doesn’t dwell on it.

She has work to do. 

She starts with the people, working around and feeding, holding babes, and she detaches herself from her vision, from her future babies and from Jon, and she focuses on this. Because this is sure and steady, and the pain of watching the fires make her want to retch. The babes are alive, the woman are alive, staring into their children's eyes with grateful faces.

She immerses herself here, with the living and starving. These are her people, her responsibility.

It’s a young girl who approaches her, quiet, demure, pretty, but nervous.

“Y-your grace,” she gives a deep, but shaky curtsey, but Sansa smiles, taking her hand and lifting her from it.

“Hello, sweet one, what’s your name?” She asks the pale faced girl, with brown ringlets, a soft face, round but gaunt.

“Posey, your grace. I...I wish to ask you of something.” Sansa frowns, but not upset, curious instead.

“If I can, I will, but pray tell me first, what is it you need of me?” She asks, and the girl shakes her head.

“I...I want to be your maid, your grace. To be your ears, your eyes, to be forever loyal to you. Never to marry, to be your servant. Everything they have said of you in whispers have been true, and I am good at hearing whispers, your grace.”

Sansa pauses, but looks through the girl, to her eyes, the tilt of her face, the earnest way her mouth moves, and weighs her. 

“Tell me first, what they say now.” She instructs first.

The girl nods, and talks quietly. “The women, they see you as a savior. They see you as strong, and kind, and caring. But they also wish they had your wolf, so they could be strong like you. The men crave you, but fear Lord Targaryen, they see him as a God, or fear him as one, they seem unsure of whether to be in awe or fear of him. They are wary of his...affliction to the Wildings, but the men respect Lord Giantsbane, he...he is kind, but not...not lordly. I’m not sure they’ve decided on him. But, sorry I got off track, the men, they...they resent you in a way as well. But they want you all the same, and expect you to take a husband.”

She looks at the girl, and nods, taking her hand. She needs a spy, needs someone who will tell her the truth, all of it. “I take you, Posey, as my handmaiden. You will have a place at my table so long as you stay loyal, and you will be rewarded.” The girl smiles, gratefully, and Sansa nods, smiling to her as well. “Come, I have a few things that you can take, dresses, boots, furs, and then you will eat. Then, then I need to know how to secure Tormund’s place here.”

 

That night she doesn’t weep, she feels like it's been taken from her. Instead, she thinks of her children, of Rickon, of Bran, of Arya, and Robb and mother and father. She creates a world inside of her head that’s beautiful, where they’re all alive and where she’s never been touched by Joffrey, by Petyr, by those men in Kings Landing, by Ramsay.

She doesn’t sleep, not until Jon comes to her that night, and not until he lays next to her. She holds his arms over her, wraps herself in his arms, and breaths in his scent, and he smells like home. He holds her tight, and she shushes the whimpers, and he kisses her forehead, her hair, and then her temple. 

“Sleep, sweetling. Even if your dreams are of fire, remember that we are ice, too far that they won’t reach. Not Rickon, not Arya, not Bran, not anyone else.” He murmurs, and Sansa wonders when he began to understand her pain better than she. But she lets out a shaky breath, and braces herself for the dreams.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, let me know if you see any errors!

The Blood of the Wolf  
Chapter Fourteen

“He can’t read, your grace,” Posey whispers to her. “He will need to learn how to or have someone close enough to you that you can trust. He’s proven he cares, know he has to prove he is capable of balancing it all.” She finishes, and finishes tying the loops of her corset. She nods, and smiles.

“Make sure that you drink and eat tonight, Posey. There’s no need for you to stretch your meals. Thank you for your help.” She smiles, pretty and bows her head, and moves away. “Please, join me, I haven’t eaten yet and Jon has business.” 

She flushes, nodding, and sits down at the table, taking her porridge and Sansa smiles. “Tell me of yourself, Posey.”

She blanches, but recovers quickly. “I am the youngest daughter of a kennel trainer, your grace, my mother worked in the pub, as a waitress. I have two brothers and five sisters. But two of my sisters died in infancy. My father died in the war, and he always raved of the Starks. When...when we heard of Ramsay and his hunting we were terrified. Even more so of your marriage to him. And then when Smalljon left to join him, with my brothers too. And I...and then you won, gave forgiveness to those who turned against him. And now, with my brothers back, I...they wished me good, but...they wanted to marry me off. But…” Sansa takes her hand and smiles, sad and understanding.

“You’ll be able to chose whatever fate you want, if you marry, if you don’t, that is up to you now.” She smiles, awkwardly.

“I will never be able to marry someone I could love, or love a husband.” And Sansa carefully forces herself not to go stiff as she looks at Posey, who looks up at her in fear and insecurity. Her cheeks are flushed, and Sansa gives her a tight smile.

“No, but so long as you are under my protection, whoever you chose to share a bed with will be protected.” Sansa says carefully, squeezing her hands. “Now, eat. And tell me of better things. Can you read?” She shakes her head no, and Sansa nods. “When we arrive back in Winterfell, Jeyne and I will teach you too. Perhaps my brother will find it soothing to have someone else to learn with, he doesn’t like being alone much.” She says.

“Rickon? Prince Rickon?” Sansa nods, smoothly.

“Yes, he is a bit wild, but Jon always says I worry too much. He’s loyal, and my father would probably say he has a bit too much of the wolfblood in him. But...but I think he’s a fine boy. But he hates being alone. He follows Tormund’s daughters around quite a lot, he grew up alone.” 

“Aye, your Grace. His direwolf took down eight men before someone could stop him. Your brother, well, he was wild too. A few men tried to free him...but Smalljon cut their throats and burned them in the courtyard, still half alive.” Sansa’s eyes narrow, but she nods.

“Never again will it happen, Posey. That I swear.”

She nods, and finishes her porridge as Sansa chats idly, wishing she could see Alys and Jeyne, and thinks to write them both, as well as Arya and Rickon. She smiles when she talks of them, what they look like and how they speak, how Arya dresses like a man, but is becoming a beautiful young woman, just as fierce as Rickon.

“She sounds like Lady Lyanna.” She says, and Sansa smiles.

“Aye, she does have the steel beneath her skin that my aunt had.” She says, and Posey frowns.

“As do you, your grace, I think you do not give yourself enough credit.” Posey tells her, and Sansa smiles, a bit shocked, when someone knocks on the door and enters quietly. Brienne stands tall, her hair growing longer into her face, and Posey stands, dismissing herself with a thank you, and leaves. 

Brienne nods to her as she moves quickly from the room and Sansa smiles at her. “Your hair is growing longer, Lady Brienne. Would you like it cut? Or would you prefer to grow it longer?” She asks, and Brienne smiles, somewhat surprised.

“Most tell me that I need to grow it longer,” she says sheepishly. “But I prefer it short.” Sansa smiles, pulling out the knife that Arya had given her, and motioned for her to sit.

“Yes, well, I think we’ve both dealt with enough people who think they know what’s best for us.” She says quietly, running her hands through Brienne’s hair, running the blade carefully behind. 

“Things have to settle here, and quickly.” Sansa says quietly. Brienne grunts in acknowledgment. “Tormund will need instruction, instruction I cannot give. And Jon is rushing to help, but he and I know he only learned so much shortly as Lord Targaryen, or my lover, whatever they call him know.” She says flippantly, and Brienne tenses.

“If they should ever speak dishonor on your name I’ll-”

“Do not worry, my lady. There is something I must confess to you, something that I have not told Jon. Something...I have not told anyone.” She says quietly. “I...I have no one else I can trust implicitly. And I don’t...I don’t know how much longer I can keep it to myself.” She says rushed, and once she’s finished with Brienne’s hair, she moves and locks the door. 

Brienne watches her worried, and Sansa sits, clasping her hands together. “My brother, Bran is alive. And he...he has the ability to see the future. He’s...he’s come into my mind. I know it sounds mad, I know, but he...he’s a wolf like me. I can sense Arya and Rickon too, we are connected somehow.” 

Brienne frowns, moving to shift forward, her leathers grinding against each other, and she nods, slowly. “I’ve seen you shift into a wolf, I don’t know if it’s a gift from the Gods or magic, but I know that you speak the truth, your grace. If anything, you’ve gained more clarity the longer you are around.”

Sansa smiles, grateful and full of hope. “He showed me my future, or a possible one, he said. We won the war, we...we found peace. And I had...I had so many children. Aemon, Eddard, Robb, Rickard, Cat, Lyanna and a child on the way. Arya...she had a child and I had a nephew, Torrhen. Brienne, I...Jon and I…they were his children. Our children, our happy, safe, beautiful, and kind, and loud, and wild, and gentle, and so, so kind…” Sansa feels herself rambling of violet and grey and blue eyes, icy blond hair, brown, dark hair, and red. 

Brienne is smiling, and she takes Sansa’s hands. “That is what we fight for, then? Why you have been so light, but your grace, why have you not told Jon? You both-your grace I am not well-versed in love. But-the way you both look at each other, it is not just you. But-from a political standpoint, the Targaryens wed brother, sister, cousin, aunt, uncle, niece, nephew for thousands of years. If-if-Daenerys, if she comes, she will…” 

Sansa goes stiff, because in all this time she hadn’t thought of that. She hadn’t thought of Daenerys wanting him. Sansa turned to the fire, and she feels like an immense fool.

“She will want the heir within her fingers. But...but there is another, another Prince.” And they’ve been known to take multiple husbands. “I saw...I saw our children. Targaryen and all, and...Brienne, I don’t know…”

She feels the tears then, and curses herself. “I saw a child burn alive, crying for his mother. I saw a city burn, and I know what is coming. I know it is foolish, but I need to hold onto this. Even if it’s not going to happen.” Brienne moves forward, onto her knees before her.

“It is not foolish to wish for better, your grace.” She chastises softly. “It is not foolish to want a better future.”

Sansa smiles. “In this world, it is.”

 

“Your grace, Lady Maege and Lady Lyanna Mormont have arrived.” Lord Davos tells her, and Sansa nods, thanking him, and she collects Jon and Tormund, and they move to the courtyard, awaiting the arrival of their guests. Sansa could feel the anxiety settle into her belly.

Lady Maege arrives first, dark hair tied back tightly in a braid. She isn’t an attractive woman, and she has scars across her face. She’s a bulky woman, but proud, with her small, lick of a girl behind her. But the girl's eyes are fierce, strong, and her gaze reminds her of a southern woman she once knew.

“Lady Maege, Lady Lyanna, I am so glad of your arrival,” Sansa says smoothly.

Lady Maege nods, giving a grim smile, before kneeling with her men and daughter. “Aye, your grace. I never thought I’d see you. But you sent Lord Davos to free us. I apologize for not following you to the Karstarks, but our numbers are severely depleted.” Sansa moves forward, motioning for her to rise.

“I know, Lady Maege, that I am not the Stark you wish was here. But the Lannisters, Freys, and Boltons are the least of our problems. What is in the past will be left in the past, so long as we are willing to move forward together. Might I introduce you to my cousin, son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen.” She steps to the side, pulling away from her.

He steps forward, and bows. He has his sword in his hand. 

“Lady Maege Mormont, this sword belonged to your brother. I was his squire. He was...was a man a great man.” 

She stared at him, levelling her eyes at him. “Why did he give you this sword?” She drawls out, before looking down at the sword with haunted and vulnerable eyes.

He breathed, deep before he spoke. “A wight attacked him in the night, I...I stopped it. Killed it, and saved him.” He says, rough, and Sansa tries not to smile, but Maege gives a grim one. 

“Keep the sword, Lord Targaryen. You killed a wight, an ice demon, from what I’ve heard, and rose from the dead. I hope that this sword serves you well. All I ask, is that when the time comes, you give it to any worthy son born to my family. My brother, and disgraced nephew were the last men of my family, and he gave this sword to you for a reason. I won’t take it from you.”

He looks shocked, in a way that is totally Jon, but he firms himself before bowing his head and nodding. He gratefully places the sword back on his belt.

“Thank you, Lady Mormont.” 

“Shall we discuss things privately?” She says abruptly, turning to Sansa, and she nods.

“Lord Giantsbane will you lead us to the council chambers?” Sansa turns to Tormund who keeps a schooled face like Jon and Sansa had instructed him too. He had sat through her lesson with Jon dutifully, asking any question that had come to his head as Sansa had asked him too. He cared-that was what mattered. All that would come after could be worked on. 

He nods, and bows his head in recognition to the Ladies, who eye him carefully, weighing between distrust and acceptance.

He leads them easily through the castle and into the hallways, up a flight of stairs before he lead them to a room, readied with a brand new sigil: a pale faced giant, with a sword rather than chains. Lady Maege and Lyanna watch the sigil calmly, and Posey bows deeply, ready with tea and bread, a hot stew in a large bowl, several bowls beside it.

“Yer men’re bein fed. Apologies, Lady Maege, Lady Lyanna, we’re tryna work on new buildings. Apparently the infrastructure here ain’t up to standard. Most of our people are stayin in the main hall.” 

Her eyebrows raise. “I thought with all that Bolton Gold they’d settled for, that they’d be balls deep in new shit.” She says, and Sansa feels her eyes widen and Jon nearly choke on his tea, but Tormund grins, bellowing out a laugh.

“Aye, don’t know what Bear Island looks like, but we’re gonna need more than just some Bolton Gold. But S-her grace, has a plan.”

Davos enters the room, bowing to the room.

“Lady Maege, I believe you may have met Ser Davos before, he has agreed to work on the council as an advisor. A position, I would also like to offer to you.” She stares at her, before nodding slowly.

“I served King Robb on the council once, I hope to serve you better than I served him.” She says, bowing her head.

Sansa sits, and the rest of them do as well.

“After this war, we will have plenty of time to think of the past, Lady Maege. But the living are hungry, and face a threat greater than any Lannister. I have three main plans. Three that I will need your help on. First, retake the Riverlands. My great uncle has recently responded to a bird telling me that not only are the entirety of the Frey soldiers banking on their home, but as are 10,000 Lannister men. But I’ve begun to hear that the Lannister men will soon pull out, as there is word of treachery in Kings Landing. We sweep through the Riverlands quickly, taking them by both surprise, and by both sides with the men of my cousin, Robin Arryn. We will send a small fleet before hand to take down the skeleton crew keeping Walder Frey and his family safe, we will take them down, and send our men down quickly. We will recapture the Iron Islands and then we will recapture Dragonstone, my cousins rightful seat, and then once we have the Fleets at Dragonstone. I’ve warned Lord Reed of this already, and he is readying his men for the arrival of our armies. After we have secured the Riverlands, reunited the Vale, and the Crowlands. From there, we will reinforce our strongholds. We will have Lannister, Frey, and Bolton Gold to do this. Add glass gardens to every single stronghold we have, converted all available buildings to housing, and begin cutting down wood. It will allow for further visibility as well as prepare us for winter. We need to bunker down, Winter is coming. During this time we will also ready our armies.” 

There’s a pause, and Maege leans back, nodding, calculating, before sitting forward again. “It’s quite a plan. A plan that is quite...attainable. But we could secure the entirety of the Kingdoms if we make it that far. But you speak none of that nonsense any man would in your place.” Tormund snorts, and she waves her hand off, dismissing his reaction. “Why?” Sansa looks back at Jon, who waits for her, and then she turns to Davos, who tips his head somewhat forward before she turns to Maege.

“We plan on making peace with the Dragon Queen. In order to win against the Others, we will need her Dragons. Jon is the rightful heir of the Seven Kingdoms. Lord Reed informed us that Lyanna and Rhaegar were married. It makes him the rightful heir, but he does not want the throne.” She says smoothly. Lyanna Mormont eyebrows raise, but Jon speaks first.

“I’m a Soldier, not a King. All I want is my family safe. I don’t care about the crown. I am loyal to Sansa, Arya, Rickon, and the North.” He says, eyes earnest and careful, and Maege nods slowly.

“The men will not be happy at this.” She says honestly.

“They prefer to be blown to pieces by Dragons?” Tormund asks, snorting. “I’d sure as hell like to keep my skin unburnt, praise the Gods. Fools want to make themselves bloody Dragon chow? Let’em.” 

Sansa leans forward. “Yara Greyjoy, once we have their mainland, will lead men down to Mireen. She will help them reach the mainland. Tyrion Lannister is a good man, kept Joffrey, Cersei, and his father from turning me into a breeding mule. He will listen.” 

She watches slowly, and frowns. “It could backfire in our faces.” 

“After what the South has done to the North, the only way that she will ever get any sort of treaty with the North is with a Stark in charge. If she has any sense about her, and I know she does because Tyrion Lannister is her willing hand, she will not spit in the face of any help she can get to get the Iron Throne.” 

She nods, before giving another grim smile. “It’s a better plan than anyone else has. One that’s attainable. The Manderly’s will back you easily. Glovers probably will now that they’ve seen you defeat the Boltons, Umbers, and Karstarks.” Sansa nods.

“I plan on involving other houses as well. The War has changed things, many of our Lords are dead, and we need to change as well. Lord Flint and Lord Magnor will be invited to join our council as well, as advisors. Lord Glover, my uncle Lord Edmure Tully, Sigorn and Alys Thenn, and Wyman Manderly will invited as official advisors, as you and Ser Davos have. Lady Yara Greyjoy will be named Master of ships, master of coin as Lord Wylis Manderly, Lord Reed will be the commander of our troops, and he will have his pick of second and third. My great-uncle Lord Brynden Tully will be placed as Master of Laws.” Sansa pauses and turns to Tormund. “You, Lord Tormund Giantsbane, will be the commander of the Wildling Forces.” He stiffened, before grinning and leaning forward. 

“You’ve left out your hand.” She says smoothly, nodding to her choices though. “I’m guessing it will be Lord Targaryen, but his aunt will more than likely wish to marry him for his...” She pauses as Jon stiffens, and Sansa speaks first, drawing them away from that thought.

“I’ve got a plan. As for my hand, that will be revealed soon enough. But I want to communicate with both of the Lord Manderlys, first. The rest of the Lords and soldiers will be arriving in the next day or two.” Sansa explains, and there’s an easy silence that settles before Lyanna speaks up.

“You’re not what I imagined.” She says openly, brows narrowed. “A Northern Queen with a southern sense of battle. You’re not like Robb, but you know how to move things around so they settle just right.” She says.

“If it hadn’t of been for Aegon the Conqueror's sisters, he would have never managed to secure the Kingdom.” Davos says. Lyanna smirks.

“Aye, it’s just not often that a bunch of men actually listen. Men tend to think they’ve got all the power and all the knowledge they need. It usually leaves them burnt on a pyre or buried.” Lyanna says back to him. They won’t be as keen to listen as we have, but we will be loyal. We always have been.” Sansa smiles.

“I know. And I also know that those in this room are the ones that I can trust above all. Your mother defended Robb to her capture, and you, her daughter, stayed loyal. I can work within this.” Sansa explains, and she turns to Jon, who watches her closely.

His eyes are guarded, and she knows it’s because of his aunt.

But she’s not sure if he’ll agree. She’s seen the future, but she’s not quite sure how to get there.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, if you see any errors please let me know! This chapter is a little shorter than normal, but I got over 200 pages on Google Docs! I feel pretty accomplished :)

The Blood of the Wolf  
Chapter Fifteen

“You said that we would go to each other, Sansa.” Jon says, and his eyes look almost angry, and it makes Sansa actually freeze. She reigns it in, and closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

“Jon, you are the last male heir of the Targaryen family. It makes you the natural heir, Daenerys has been married twice, according to intel. Once she has been pregnant, but no child survived.”

“And you’re not pregnant,” he snaps back, and Sansa flinches, and he immediately apologizes. “I...I need to know. If you plan on marrying me off, Sansa, until recently my fate was my own, it wasn’t chained to the name of a Great House.” He says and Sansa frowns.

“If you have questions, ask me Jon. Don’t...don’t harbor them. I don’t plan on marrying you off...I...but she may force our hands with Dragons. She has the immediate upper hand, but we play the long game.” She says. 

He swallows and looks at her hard, and Sansa is reminded of his previous statement. She turns away from him and sighs. 

“The first night he…” she pauses, and almost shakes. “For the week following I hit my stomach over and over again. Everytime he’d leave in the morning I hit my belly over and over again. I’d wrap my hand so it wouldn’t bruise. But I did so until it ached and just kept doing it. I was caught, by one of the nursemaids. So she gave me a tin, with knitting supplies. Under it was moon tea. I drank it once a week, to make sure it lasted.” She turns back to him. “I knew that the Dragon Queen would want your hand because…” she stills herself before turning to look to him hard. “Because it’s what I would do. To secure my place as Queen, to secure the North’s safety. Rickon, Bran, and Arya’s safety. You’ve walked through fire, you’ve died and been reborn: Jon Targaryen, the unburnt, the undead, and the Prince to the Iron Throne. Being tied to you makes those tied safe.” He looks at her, somewhat shocked and unsure.

“I don’t...I’m just...a bastard. Even if my mother and Rhaegar married I’m…”

“The last official and open male Targaryen.” She says smoothly. “Do you want me to explain? Both pieces? You will choose in the end. If you’d been a women, like I was, you’d have no choice. I can explain it to you: from both sides.” So you can chose, so you can chose between me or her, she thinks painfully. He scrubs his face, and shakes his head.

“I’ll get the North or the South, I know that.” Sansa laughs though, which surprises him. Instead, she moves to sit next to him, pulling him to sit with her.

“If you and I marry, we will get the North. But our children, son or daughter, will be fated to rule the seven Kingdoms. Either as a King or a Queen. They will be raised in the North, of course. But this Kingdom has been together so long it doesn’t know how to be apart. We can sit here and pretend like the North can be separated, but it will never last. We’ve grown too reliant, and the North, it’s too big to sustain on it’s own.” She explains quickly to him. “Our sons or daughters would marry whoever the Dragon Queen’s heir will be. And then unite the seven Kingdoms. If you marry her...you will immediately unite the South and North. We will become the seven Kingdoms again. You will have Kings and Queens, rather than your children being made them. The North will lose its independence, and perhaps be punished for its role in Robert’s Rebellion. Or she may do her best to make you happy, and leave us alone. You will be King, rather than Lord. And you will be away from us. I will marry again, to who I ‘m not quite sure. Rickon will be raised among strangers, and Arya will be married off. Bran...Bran if he ever comes back will be married off as well. Robin...I do not know what she will do with Robin or the arranged marriage I have set up for him. The Free Folk? Well, she’ll probably allow them to be Lords, as she’s freed Mireen from their masters and worked to rejoin them into everyday life.” She says quietly, and struggles to keep her hands from shaking.

“And if marrying you puts you in more danger? If she decides that she doesn’t like that and comes to kill you and all of us? Sansa, she will not like that we have claimed independence. She could kill us all.” He asks, and Sansa shakes her head.

“She’d be a fool to do that. She’d never have the North, and right now the numbers loyal to us is far greater than what is loyal to her. The Vale’s army is completely untouched, they never partook in the war of the Five Kings. And even with fighting on our side, there is little to no damage.” She says and he’s quiet for a short while, but there’s a relief that sinks into him.

“Who...who would you and Arya be forced to marry?” He asks, his voice cold. 

“I would probably re-marry Tyrion. He was kind enough, but also allows the North to be held by the South once again. It would cause agitation, of course, but I would go willingly. I’d rather him than...than some of my other choices. Arya...if Dorne or Highgarden ally with Daenerys, one of the heirs of their families. But doubtfully Dorne. It would...cause much unrest. I have heard that Willas Tyrell is kind enough, a cripple, but kind and gentle. Margaery tells me he likes to ride horseback. If she is to marry anyone...I would prefer him. He’s...much older than her. But...kind. I once was betrothed to him. He will not harm her. But he will also allow her things that no lady would normally have.” Sansa rambles. 

“And if I marry you? Who will she marry then?” He asks, and Sansa feels her lips pull into a scowl.

“No one, should she chose. I will never, ever, force her into what I was. She has seen enough pain Jon.” Jon breaths out slowly.

“And you? What do you want?” Sansa frowns, and turns to him.

“It isn’t what I want, Jon. It is your choice.” He frowns, and Sansa feels as if she could count his eyelashes he was so close.

“I...Sansa, this, this is your choice too.” He says, and Sansa wants to shake him. But he takes her hand, and Sansa feels as if the air has left her chest. “Things...they aren’t the same.” She wants to laugh, because of course they aren’t. They aren’t children anymore, what they face is realer than she ever imagined, and just thinking of it makes her tremble. Not for herself, but because she knows Jon will face it all. And she can’t follow him, she can never follow him. Not there.

She smiles, mouth closed and tight before she speaks. “Yes. Things have changed. I...I feel foolish, to be honest. I never learn.” She says, and then laughs. “I see you...and I see all that is good in the world. And all I want to do is to cling onto that.” She says to him, teary eyed. She stands suddenly. “I want you to chose, Jon. For you. Not for me or for the North. I want you to chose. After everything, you deserve to chose.” She doesn’t look at him, because she literally feels like she’s about to shatter. Like everything has come down to this moment, and Sansa isn’t sure if she knows this answer.

“You’re not the only one whose feelings changed, Sansa.” His voice is grating, and it makes her belly tighten. “I...I was your brother. And now...now I’m not and everything has changed. I see you and you set my world on fire. Your eyes, your nose, your mouth, your skin. It isn’t right, Sansa. I took an oath. To serve the Night’s Watch. Then another oath to protect you. One to father-your father.” She turns suddenly, and watches him, and she can feel the heat flush on her cheeks.

“When will you stop being so bloody honorable?” She asks, almost laughing. “I am here, for you to take. Willingly.” And Jon looks at her, his dark eyes blown wide, and his face looks more serious than she’s ever seen.

“You’re not something that can be taken, Sansa.” Her heart beats in her chest and she can nearly feel it in her ears.

“But I can be given, can’t I? I can give myself to you, Jon. Just you.” She says, voice airier than before. She feels like a little girl again: but she knows Jon. She knows he’s good, knows he’s loyal and kind and brave. “Whatever you chose, I will respect your decision Jon. After everything you’ve done, for all of us, you deserve one.”

He stands, and Sansa forces herself not to look away from him. Because he’s looking at her like she’s hung the moon. He’s looking at her like father looked at mother when she was young. Not the adoration or happiness, settled in many years of marriage. 

He moves to her, and takes her hands first. She focuses on the way he watches her every move. He’s careful, stroking up and down her palms before moving up her arms and he never wraps himself around her, allowing her an out. One she doesn’t take.

His rough, calloused hands across her cheek make her shiver, and she wants to blush and look away, but she doesn’t think she’s ever seen him as beautiful as he is in this moment. He kisses her forehead, before turning his face into her neck, a hand settling on her waist and on the side of her face.

She’s always felt safe in his arms, since she’d allowed herself to lay in them. Since the first night she’d tucked herself beside him, Jon stiff and unsure. That night she hadn’t cared, because she had her brother back.

But Jon isn’t her brother now. He’s still Jon, and all those qualities that she’d cared for have somehow transformed. She feels like a young girl all over again as she lets herself settle against him. She’s terrified of rejection, but she forgets it in this moment.

He kisses her temple again, but lingers, and his hand on her waist shifts forward, wrapping his hand around her waist better, rather than just laying there. She clutches at his tunic, willing him to never let her go, because in his embrace she can see them again. She can see his smile and his adoring eyes. She can see how light he looked, how calm and how relaxed. 

She feels it in her bones, how safe she feels, how calm and she inhales his scent. He smells like home: weirwood trees, the cold, and the smell of firewood. 

“It’s foolish,” he says quietly. “Foolish that my choice has so much power.” He says, and Sansa is unsure, does this mean that he is telling her no? Does this mean that she’s as much of a fool as she once thought? He pulls away from her, facing her at equal height, because curse her height.

“Everything I’ve ever done is for you, Sans. Since I was brought back, it’s all been for you. You, then Rickon, and Arya, and Bran. I thought I lost all of you, but all I had to do was wait.” Sansa feels the relief sink into her bones. 

“Father once told me he’d make a match for me who was brave, gentle, and strong.” She says, smiling. His eyes are so soft, so so soft, so gentle and so kind. And then she feels herself move forward, hand rising to cup his face and she kisses him. 

It’s not like she imagined. With Ramsay he had always kissed her to humiliate her, but Jon’s lips are chapped from the cold air, but they yield to her easily. He pulls her closer, doesn’t force her with his mouth. He yields to her, and she yields to him. 

It isn’t a battle, like she’d heard girls giggle of. They meld around each other so easily, so naturally, and Sansa weaves her fingers through his hair and he holds her tighter, firm, but never forceful. 

He pulls away from her, and his dark eyes are blown wide, so serious and if she hadn’t known him better she would have thought he looked upset. But his lips twist into a smile that she swears she’ll work her entire life to see over and over again. Sansa feels a giggle slip from her lips, and Jon moves forward and kisses her forehead again, before leading her to Sansa’s bed. 

He holds her against him, firm, and Sansa finds her legs interweaved within his own. It’s different, this time. Jon doesn’t avoid her eyes and openly takes her hand in his, palms meeting and they hold hands all night, through sweet dreams of their family together. 

She dreams of Aemon, little Aemon as a young boy. He sits at his father's feet and Jon sitting over him as he hums, wispy pale blonde hair against Jon’s dark clothed leg. Beside him is a small boy as well, little Ed, dark hair in Aemon’s lap, he’s playing with a pendant eyes wide and intelligent. In Jon’s arms is a babe, a boy, and he smiles at him, soft and gentle. When Sansa moves forward and nearly freezes.

Jon’s arm is injured, sewn in multiple pieces and Sansa frowns, feeling sick for a moment. It’s an angry red, but left open to air. There’s no pus, thank the Gods, but it looks so painful, as if someone had nearly torn his arm clean off. It looks like it’s healing well, and when he stretches his hand it stretches accommodatingly.

“When the war is really over, when I don’t come home just because I’m hurt,” Jon says, his voice soft and soothing. “I’ll get to know you better. Aemon, Ed, and Robb. But I promise, I’ll come back. I’ll come back alive. Just don’t be rough on her. I don’t think she quite imagined having to raise three boys under six at a time like this. But maybe, by the time I come back, you’ll have another sibling. ” 

Or two, she thinks to herself. 

She can hear a laugh, and she closes her eyes and smiles. Because of course. The boys fade away from her, and she turns back to her brother, who sits near a Weirwood.

He smiles up at her, his eyes light and happy. “Soon, Sans. Soon I’ll see you again.” She smiles, but moves forward as the vision fades. She kisses his forehead, gentle, and looks down into his eyes, memorizing every single feature he has.

“I love you, little brother.”

 

When she wakes, Jon is already up, dressing quietly in front of the fire, pausing to stoke it. She wakes, feeling lighter than she has in a while, and smiles, just watching him quietly. 

He turns to her and smiles, eyes and face soft. “The sun hasn’t risen yet. You should go back to sleep.” She shakes her head.

“No, I slept well.” He smiles, moving forward to her, and kisses her lips lightly.

She wants to tell him, but she’s unsure. Even with last night, would he still agree with his decision? Would he marry her? Or had he changed his mind?

He presses his lips against her forehead next, and breaths in deep.

“Lord Manderly will arrive today. Tonight...tonight will I see you?” He asks, his voice unwavering, but she can see the waver in his eyes.

She sits up farther, pressing her lips to his and she wishes she could spend all day like this.

“Yes, Jon,” she says quietly. He smiles, and pulls away before slipping into the hallway quietly. And she wishes the night would have never ended.


End file.
